John Watson's Room
by Etaleah
Summary: John Watson has never been outside. Born and raised in a shed by the man who abducted his mother, he has never seen or spoken to anyone but his captor. One day a young Sherlock Holmes comes investigating, and John's entire life is about to change. Johnlock; warnings for abuse, homophobia, and assault.
1. Searching for Jane

Lestrade granting Sherlock's wish was the best and worst thing that ever happened to him. That was how he recalled it years afterward, but on that day when he got the text, just as he was leaving Uni for the summer holidays, all he could think was _finally_.

"Burglaries and hacking are never higher than fives," he'd complained. "Give me something _hard_. Please, I'm begging."

"Sherlock, you're good, but there's only so much I can entrust to an amateur. I mean, for Christ's sake, you're a student."

They had gone back and forth like that for weeks, and it looked like Sherlock had finally won. He wasted no time getting a cab over to Scotland Yard, backpack still hanging off his shoulders. By now the officers knew him and waved him right through security, some with envious glares. _Idiots. They could advance much higher if they'd only listen to me._

The hardest looks of all came from Anderson and Donovan, who were standing just behind Lestrade. "Don't get too excited, it's an old case with a trail that's gone cold," Anderson sneered.

Sherlock lit up. "Ooh! This _is_ a challenge." He loved old cases. They were his favorite subject to read about. The Uni librarians had given him more than a few stares as he checked out book after book, always imagining how he would have done it differently and mentally chastising the police who had bungled the whole thing. He sat down across from them now. "At least an eight, I hope?"

"This one's got to be at least that," Lestrade said, handing him a file. "Jane Watson, 19 years old-just like you-at the time of her disappearance. She was reported missing on April 4th, 1998, while she was at Uni. Last person to see her was her roommate, but police questioned her and couldn't find any leads there. Said Jane just went out one day, probably to the library but she didn't know, and didn't come home, and that was all she knew. We never found a reason not to believe her and couldn't find a trace of Jane. She's been missing for 20 years."

Sherlock had been sifting through the file. Jane had a beautiful, gentle face with the blondest hair he'd ever seen. Even he found her attractive. When he realized Lestrade had stopped speaking, he looked up. "That's it?"

"Pretty much. We searched for weeks but never found anything. There are a few photos of Jane and statements from her family and friends about her habits, but nothing more than that." Lestrade grinned. "Good, isn't it?"

"A near impossibility, I'd say." With that much time having passed, there wouldn't be a body left. Jane would have decayed to dust by now, which would make the chances of being able to identify her slim to none. Granted, she _might_ not be dead, but that wasn't likely.

Uncertainty. He smiled. "This is more like it. Thank you, Lestrade." He closed the file and stood up. "I'll be in touch when I've solved it." Anderson and Donovan laughed and rolled their eyes. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "And I have every intention of solving it."

"I'll hold you to that." Lestrade shook his hand, and Sherlock left the Yard with a spring in his step.

* * *

The case was the toughest Sherlock had ever had, and he loved it. The next week flew by as he reviewed the statements and photographs. Jane had been a stellar student and well-liked with ambitions for graduate school and a summer job, so runaway had been ruled out immediately. She and her roommate had gotten along, and the latter had testified that Jane went to the library almost every weekend.

 _I'm sorry I can't be a hundred percent certain; we didn't really tell each other where we went most of the time_ , her statement read. _We lived separate lives, so when I saw her leave that morning, I didn't really think anything of it. I assume she was going to the library because she said she liked to go there to study every weekend, but I don't know that for a fact. She never said anything to indicate she wasn't happy other than being a tiny bit stressed for exams, but we all were. As far as I know, there was no one in her life who'd want to hurt her. When she didn't come home, though, I got worried and started asking around to see if anyone knew where she was. No one knew, so I finally called the police._

The family had echoed those same points, as had Jane's friends. They all said she was single, everybody liked her, that she was a warm and caring person. Everything the police had found, from Jane's school transcripts to her letters home, confirmed what they had said.

There wasn't much to go on, and Sherlock decided the only thing to do was visit the scene of the crime (or what he assumed was the scene of the crime) and see what he could learn there. Upon arriving at her school, he studied the path from her dorm to the library. This led him to a parking lot just behind the latter, which was full of cars now but probably wasn't always.

 _She left her dorm at 9:30 in the morning so she could get to the library when it opened at 10. That early on a weekend, it's unlikely this place would have had many people._ He looked around and began to think out loud.

"The most deserted place between Jane's dorm and the library is this parking lot, so I'll assume the kidnapping happened here. However," he looked around and saw a few students on the sidewalk, distracted by phones but still very much there. "Given the public space, it still would have been too risky to use force, so there's at least a 60% chance he lured her to his car somehow. Probably told her some story, maybe he had car trouble or something of the like."

Sherlock paced the pavement, his mind going a mile a minute to recreate the scene. "So he lures her to his car…she was tall, so possibly a truck, tends to be the mode of choice for kidnappers, and then how does he get her inside?" He smirked. "Ah, simple. Since there's no record of any blood on the pavement, he would have had to drug her. Which means he would have had time to take her someplace out of the way, but still close enough that she wouldn't wake up before he got there."

Using his phone, Sherlock searched Google Maps for all of the surrounding neighborhoods and stored them in his mind palace. It was a long shot, but until he had more information, scoping out those neighborhoods was his best hope for now. Too many people liked to think that kidnappers took their prey out into the woods somewhere, but most of the cases Sherlock had read about had the culprit locking their captives up right in their own homes and backyards.

The first neighborhood saw nothing suspicious. Neither did the second. Or the third. Sherlock was about to think he should pursue another method but decided to check the fourth one anyway. The sun was going down, and this one was small enough that he could get it in before dark.

He walked down the tidy rows of houses, burying his Bohemian disgust at the ordinary working and middle-class cliché of a place. Depending on who lived here, either nothing could happen or everything could. He had just decided it was nothing when he saw it.

Sherlock had assumed identifying an abductor's house would be hard, but the fence that was taller than any of the others was a dead giveaway. "You don't have a fence that tall unless you're hiding something," he said to himself. As he got closer, his suspicions were furthered by a red truck in the driveway. He pulled up Google Maps again and looked up the distance between this address and the parking lot where Jane was likely to have been taken.

 _Six miles._ Close enough that she would still be out when she got here, going by what he knew about drugs—too much, admittedly—but a decent distance from the scene of the crime. Sherlock couldn't help a little jump. He might have solved in one day what the Yard hadn't been able to solve in 20 years.

The house was quiet. The truck being here might mean the kidnapper was here, but the recently trampled grass near the front door was enough to make Sherlock question that. He decided to test it. Once he'd rung the doorbell and knocked, he rushed around the house and listened. No one came to answer. Sherlock crept to the side of the fence and jumped.

Good job he was so tall, he could barely see a huge yard with a shed in the middle of it. _This just gets more and more promising._ That would be the perfect place to keep a body. Best of all, there was no one in the yard. Sherlock peeked inside the windows. No one there either.

Lestrade wouldn't like it, but it was worth the burglary charge to find out. Sherlock walked around the house several times to find the best point of entry. He finally decided to try his luck picking the lock on the front door. Least likely to leave signs, anyway.

He took a paper clip from his pocket, which he kept just for such occasions, and began to unfold it and insert it into the keyhole. It was rough going, and he was so focused on turning the clip that he stupidly didn't notice the shadow behind him until seconds too late. Just as he let go of the knob and turned around, a cloth was over his mouth, and his muscles were relaxing until he fell into darkness.


	2. Meeting John

When Sherlock opened his eyes, he thought he was back in Baker Street. The bed was soft, the ceiling was close…too close. The walls were brown and checkered instead of green. Something poked him in the shoulder. He sat up, breathing hard. A young man, or really a teenage boy, about his age, was cautiously watching him from the side of the bed with the biggest eyes Sherlock had ever seen. He was carefully poking Sherlock with his finger.

"Enough," Sherlock said, slapping it away. The boy jolted back and gripped his hand as if Sherlock had smacked it, backing away a bit. Sherlock scanned the area. _Steel reinforcement on the walls. Steel door with a keypad, definitely a combination lock. Not the kind you could break down without a weapon. A small, cheap table with folding chairs. Sink. Bathtub. Toilet with no lid. Shelves. Wardrobe. Mini fridge. Rug with an abnormally large stain. Hard floors._ The place was built like a box and uncomfortably similar to a solitary confinement cell. Was this the shed from the backyard?

The boy still hadn't blinked or taken his eyes off him. His clothes were ill-fitting and mismatched, and his hair was creeping past his neck and over his forehead. Something about him was familiar, but Sherlock couldn't quite place it.

"Where are we?" he asked. When Sherlock received no answer, he stood up and advanced, causing the boy to back up even more. He was becoming increasingly familiar, and Sherlock was irritated he didn't know why. "Well? Why are you staring at me?"

"You're a real person," he said in a voice barely above a whisper. "An actual real live person like me."

"Yes, thank you for that stunning observation. Now _where. Are we."_

"I-in Room."

"Room? What room?"

He blinked. "Room."

Sherlock sighed. "You're a wealth of information, aren't you." He stood under the skylight in the center of the area. Since he could see the sky—and not much else, try as he might—that meant this was almost certainly the shed.

"Have to find a way out," he murmured, rushing to the door. Of course it was locked. Sherlock studied the keypad. "The imprints make it clear the code uses the numbers eight, four, five, and nine, but that still leaves dozens of combinations and a system like this shuts down after three attempts." He glanced around. "Best thing to do is to break that skylight." He grabbed the folding chair and tossed it upward, to the shriek of his fellow prisoner.

"Don't do that!" The chair crashed to the ground, having left no effect on the skylight, and the boy scampered out of the way. "Why are you hurting Skylight?"

"To get us out of here, obviously. You could help me, you know."

"Get out of Room?"

Sherlock tried throwing the chair again, to no avail. "Room? Is that what he calls this place? How unimaginative."

"Stop it!"

Sherlock huffed. "That glass must be the toughest variety. If that's the case, it would take specialized equipment to damage it." He sat on the table and tried to think. "There must be another way out of here."

"What do you mean, out of here? There is nowhere else."

Sherlock nearly ignored that, then replayed it in his head and paused. "Nowhere else? What do you mean? Are you saying all the houses in this neighborhood are empty?"

The boy looked hopelessly confused. "I'm saying there's nowhere else unless you count outer space." He pointed to the skylight. "Nick says there's nothing out there though."

"Nick." Sherlock focused his attention on him now. _Nick._ The man who had kidnapped Jane Watson had kidnapped Sherlock too. God, this was humiliating. Some detective he was, unless maybe he could rescue himself. "So he's the one who put us here. Did he kidnap you too?"

"Kidnap? You're not making any sense," he shook his head.

Was this boy dumb as rocks or what? Sherlock sighed. "All right, let's start with the basics. My name is Sherlock Holmes. What's your name?"

"John."

"John what?"

"Just John."

"You're telling me you don't have a last name?"

"No."

Sherlock wasn't sure how that was possible but decided not to pursue it just yet. "Where are you from?"

John spread his arms. "Here. In Room. Are you from Telly?"

"Am I what?"

"From Telly." John pointed to the set in the corner, which was so old it had antennas. "That's where Nick goes when he gets my food and Sunday treats. Is that where you're from?"

Sherlock tried to wrap his brain around that nonsensical statement. _Wait._ John had said he was from Room…did that mean he was taken here as a child? Sherlock stood up suddenly. He moved closer to John, who tensed but didn't stop him, and moved his hair back to take a look at his eyes.

 _Jane Watson._ That was why John had been familiar. His eyes were just like the girl's from the photograph.

"How old are you, John?"

"Nineteen."

So that was it. "Of course," Sherlock said, more to himself than to John. "Nick abducted a teenage girl so he could rape her and keep her accessible, and he impregnated her, and she had a son. And her son grew up here…" He had a feeling he knew the answer but was still compelled to ask, "What happened to your mother?"

John shook his head. "I don't have a mother. What are you on about?"

"Yes you do, everyone has a mother."

"Who's everyone?"

"Never mind." Since Jane Watson wasn't around and John seemed to have no memory of her, it wasn't hard to guess what had happened. "Has anyone else ever been in here? Besides Nick, I mean."

John started to say no, then stopped to think. "Sometimes I think I remember a lady being in Room. She was screaming and saying no, and she and Nick were fighting. Then he punched her, and there was a crack. But when I told Nick about it, he said it never happened, so I guess I dreamed it and got confused."

Sherlock squeezed his shoulder, and John jumped. _He's not used to human contact_ , Sherlock realized. Had John really grown up here? Lived in this box all by himself for nineteen years? "That wasn't a dream, John. That was your mother, Jane Watson. Nick must have killed her." Sherlock stumbled to the bed and sank onto it.

 _For God's sake._ He had solved the case, at least. Jane Watson had been kidnapped by a sexual predator named Nick, imprisoned in "Room," or Nick's shed, given birth to his son, and been killed by him, probably when John was a small child since he had some recollection of it. That would mean she had been living in _this_ , this tiny box with her rapist, for at least three years and nine months. Maybe even longer. Sherlock's stomach twisted at the thought. Someone as smart as Jane would have certainly tried to unlock the door and break the skylight. If after three or four or even five years she hadn't escaped, it was clear that the shed was designed to be escape-proof. Nick was smarter than Sherlock had given him credit for. And somehow, he had kept her son imprisoned for _his_ entire life too.

 _But why?_ Sherlock put his fingers to his chin. Why did he allow Jane's son to stay? He must have been worried he'd get caught otherwise. Sherlock also briefly wondered why he had killed Jane, but that wasn't as hard to figure out. Someone as aggressive and dangerous as Nick would certainly fly into a violent rage every now and then. The murder may not have even been intentional; if there was a "crack," as John said, he may have simply hit her too hard and caused her head to hit the wall or floor or her neck to twist.

Which meant it didn't look good for Sherlock.

 _Stay calm._ Maybe he would see something Jane hadn't. He paced the shed. Eliminating the skylight, the door, and the walls as a possibility meant his only hope of escape would come from the floor.

"Move," he said, shoving John out of the way. "Hey!" John protested, still flinching from the touch. Sherlock couldn't take much notice, as he was pulling the rug up and tossing it aside to feel the floor underneath. _Solid concrete…wait._ There was a small crack, and he followed it under the bed, where it grew until it split open. _Chainmail. Signs of digging._ Panic was setting in.

 _Jane Watson tried to dig her way out of here only to find this._ He didn't know what she had used to do it, but the small holes and lack of much progress meant it wasn't a shovel. Nick would never have allowed her to have something she could use to hurt him. Most likely she had hit the concrete hard with something and then used a shoe or a similar item for the rest.

Sherlock crawled out from under the bed, and the toilet caught his eye again. Maybe the lid had been what she'd used to crack the concrete, and that was why it was missing? Either that or she had tried to hit Nick with it. Sherlock hoped it was the latter.

"What are you doing? Why did Nick bring you here?" John asked.

Sherlock huffed. "Because that's what kidnappers _do_ , John. They kidnap people. Now, do you know if there is any way out of here?"

"There's Door," John said, nodding to it. "But only Nick can go out of there."

 _So nothing then._ Sherlock sat on the bed. There had to be a way. Maybe if he and John both took on Nick at once…but that was a dangerous move because either he could kill them or they could end up killing him, in which case they would both starve to death. The same would happen if Sherlock tried the codes, guessed wrong, and ended up locking Nick out.

"Seriously, who are you?" John asked, annoyed.

"Sherlock," he replied, and curled up, retreating into his mind palace. He would need to think hard to avoid a panic.


	3. Life With Sherlock

John asked the strange man called Sherlock a few more questions, but he'd stopped answering. He was taking up all the space in Bed too, and wearing the biggest clothing John had ever seen. It was like a jacket, but it went all the way down his body. John would have to ask Nick if it came from the same place as his own clothes since Sherlock wouldn't say if he was from Telly. John certainly didn't remember ever seeing him there.

 _He must be crazy_ , John decided. Rambling about kidnappers and a mother and trying to leave Room. Only Nick could leave Room. Deciding to ignore his fellow inhabitant for now until Nick came back, John resumed his routine.

For the next few hours, he made sandwiches with his toaster oven and warmed up some freezer meals with his microwave, washed the dishes and wiped the sink and furniture, swept the floor, washed his clothes, and then wrung and hung them out to dry. While they dried, he exercised by jogging in place and doing push-ups like he'd seen on Telly, took a bath, folded, and stored his clothes. He finally settled down by watching Telly. Sherlock didn't move or speak the whole time, and it was weird to go about the routine with someone there who wasn't Nick.

When he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer, John turned off Telly and stood next to Bed. He was still wary about touching a real person, but he had to if he wanted to get some sleep. _And I guess we're going to have to share._

"Sherlock," he tried. As he predicted, there was no answer. "I want to go to Bed." He pushed the pale arm sticking out from under the blankets, and the man attached to it sulkily moved to the wall. John slid in next to him and tried to turn his back and ignore him. That helped with Nick sometimes, although usually he would insist on holding John to him, which wasn't John's favorite thing.

He had just started to relax and drift into something resembling sleep when the body next to him sniffed. John rolled over. Sherlock was crying into Pillow.

"You okay?" John asked hesitantly.

"No!" Sherlock said with surprising force. "No, I'm not okay! I've been trapped in here for ten hours."

Ten hours didn't sound that long to John, but Sherlock's face tugged at his heart, so he tried to be soothing. "You'll be all right. I can show you how to make breakfast in the morning. You didn't eat anything all day, so I imagine food will make you feel better."

Sherlock didn't seem to be listening. "I'll go insane," he said, eyes wide. "I don't need _food_ , John. I need stimulation. My mind is begging for it."

"What's stimulation?"

Sherlock sighed. "Something to _do_."

John brightened. "Oh, there's lots to do!" He pointed to a chest in the corner. "In there I have some puzzles and some drawing paper and pencils and a CD player with some CDs, and Telly always has something for us to watch."

None of them sparked any interest. "Room is nice," John said defensively, lying back. _I don't know what more you could want._

* * *

Though John knew he had offered to share the food, he was still annoyed to wake up to Sherlock eating it. He had been looking forward to that blueberry muffin, and now it was gone. Nick hardly ever brought muffins.

"I see you didn't need any help finding the food," he said, not without bitterness.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "You're not used to sharing, are you?"

"Only with Nick," John said, standing up and stretching. Sherlock gawked at his pants. "What?"

"I see you get comfortable with strangers quickly."

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock nodded to his pants. "Not many men I know who would sleep like that when they're sharing a room with someone they just met."

That didn't make sense. What other men? "How am I supposed to know what you're used to?" John asked, heading for Fridge. "I see you drank all the milk too."

Sherlock sighed. "I didn't realize there were limits on what I was allowed to eat. Any other ground rules I should know about?" The way he said "ground rules" made John twitch.

"Maybe just save some food and Bed for me, all right? Nick will bring more soon for Sunday treat." John closed Fridge and turned away before Sherlock could say anything more. To avoid talking to him, he turned on Telly.

There wasn't much on this time of day, mostly news. _Nineteen-year-old Sherlock Holmes was reported missing yesterday._ Sherlock rushed to sit next to John on Rug. _Ironically, he is believed to have been last seen in the same area where another nineteen-year-old, Jane Watson, was taken 20 years ago. Police are investigating the case now._

So maybe Sherlock was from Telly if the police inside it were looking for him. John pointed to the banner. "What does that say? I've always wished I knew."

"The print is fairly large, I should think—" he stopped and looked closer at John. "You can't read," he said.

"No," John agreed. "But I wish I could. They always put so much on those things, I wonder what I miss."

Sherlock sounded surprisingly sorrowful. "You poor thing. In here all this time, you've never had any education." He held John's face. "Nineteen years old and you can't read. You have no idea what Nick has done to you."

John pulled away and muted Telly. "Nick hasn't done anything to me. I mean, I don't like it when he takes some, but he has to so he can keep bringing me food and Sunday treat."

"That isn't true. He's—" Sherlock never said what Nick had done, because behind them Door was beeping and the man himself was stepping through.


	4. The Price for Life

John started to go for the bags in Nick's arms, surely chock full of more food and Sunday treat, but he flinched when Sherlock leapt up to try and get through Door only to be kicked in the stomach and hip until he was down on Floor.

"Stay down!" Nick said, and John flinched. That red flush in Nick's face and high pitch creeping into his voice was never a good sign. Sherlock probably didn't know that though, so it was up to John to make it better.

He took the bag from Nick. "Thank you," he said, keeping his head down. "This looks like a generous amount, I appreciate it." Nick was still growling at a hunched over Sherlock, also not a good sign. John started to unload the contents, desperately hoping for something to distract them all. "Hey look, more muffins! The Telly store must have been having a sale."

"We don't want muffins." Sherlock had gotten to his feet. "What we want is to get out of here." He faced Nick. "Listen to me. The police and the British government are already looking for me, and I know them personally. If you let us go, I can get you a reduced sentence and better prison conditions."

Nick took slow steps forward, getting so close to Sherlock that John covered his eyes. "And if I don't?" he asked in a low voice.

"Then I look forward to them giving you the longest sentence possible and finding the dirtiest, ugliest, moldiest prison cell for them to shove your dirty, ugly, shitty excuse for a—"

 _Crack_. John screamed. It happened so fast, just like in his dream about the lady who had been in Room. Sherlock fell back, though thankfully he put his hands out in time to keep from hitting his head. His cheek was the reddest red John had ever seen, and he thought he could see the imprint of Nick's hand.

"I know what you did to Jane Watson!" Sherlock yelled. "I'll tell them everything. You can't hope to get away with what you've done. When I came here, I was tracking my location to the police in real time." Nick had been advancing forward, then stopped. "Oh yes, they know where I was the minute I disappeared and are more than likely procuring a search warrant now. It's only a matter of time before they come here. Letting us go now is your only hope."

Nick stood there, thinking. John peeked through his fingers. He wasn't sure what Sherlock was on about, but if it made Nick stop in his tracks, it had to be important. All of Room was silent, and John was almost shaking with nervousness. Then Nick laughed.

It began with a chuckle, then he threw back his head and laughed hard and long. John retreated into a corner. He rarely heard Nick's happy laugh, but he knew this wasn't it.

"You think you're real clever, ain't you, little fag? For a second there, I almost believed your bullshit." He stomped on Sherlock's fingers, making him cry out and John wince. He wanted to beg Nick to stop, but he knew from his own beatings that it didn't work. "I saw the news, you dumb fuck. The cops said themselves they don't know where you are." He stomped on Sherlock's other hand. "I have your phone, and ain't nothing been happening on it." He stomped on Sherlock's hair, with each blow punctuated by a cry or scream. "You are a lying—stupid _—_ sack of—shit! You ever threaten me again," He crushed Sherlock's entire body with his feet, leaving ugly bruises. Sherlock had tried to get up or swing a punch a few times, but each time Nick had kicked him down or twisted his arm behind his back. "Stay down and stay out of my way."

He turned to John. "As for you," he was coming fast at John. Before he could move, Nick had an iron grip on his arm. "Why ain't you in bed where you're supposed to be? Huh?" He grabbed a fistful of John's hair and yanked it back. "Ain't you grateful for all I've done? Or do you just like not having any food to eat?"

"I'm sorry!" John whimpered. "I'll get in right now, I promise." He needn't have bothered, Nick was already pushing and pulling him toward Bed and throwing him onto it. John's back had barely touched the sheets before he had the breath knocked out of him as Nick dropped on top of him and forced his legs apart as wide as they would go. He pinned John's wrists above his head with one hand in a grip that John knew would leave fingernail marks the next day. With his other hand, he pushed John's shirt up and stroked his belly before dipping into his pants and grinding his body against John's.

John shut his eyes. A few seconds later, Nick's tongue was in his mouth, and his belt buckle was pressing painfully into John's belly while his fingers moved all over the place. This was his angry kind of taking some and John hated it. Nick was so heavy and close that John could barely breathe, and he smelled like he'd been drinking something bad. It was only a matter of minutes before he would take so hard and fast that it would hurt worse than usual and hurt to walk and sit tomorrow. John's wrists and arms ached from being held in the same position, and he felt sick with shame as Nick pushed his fingers inside him and gripped his dick to make it grow. _You dirty faggotty slut_ , he always said. _You like this, don'cha. Makes you feel real good, huh?_

His whole life, John couldn't figure it out. He never enjoyed giving some, ever. But there were some moments, like when his dick was swollen, that he felt a little good. Why? He wasn't supposed to feel good. This was supposed to make Nick feel good so he could keep bringing John food and Sunday treat.

It had happened the first time one day when John was twelve. He had been alone in Room, and he woke up to find it standing up, swollen, and throbbing, and sometimes it looked like there was fluid coming out of it. It was so sensitive that it hurt to touch and to use Toilet. He had cried all day, scared to death and hoping Nick would know what it meant and what to do. When he finally came in that night, he had been disgusted.

"That shit is gross, I don't want to see that," he said, shoving John away. "Just rub it, for god's sake. Should be ashamed of yourself."

John _was_ ashamed, but what he didn't understand was that when Nick was taking some, like now, he seemed to want it to happen. He was alternating between fondling it and pushing his fingers inside John, while the latter struggled to breathe, partly because Nick's weight was crushing him and partly because his wet, angry tongue was still pushing so far back into his mouth that John was afraid he'd throw up. That had happened once. Nick had made him eat it.

He whimpered pitifully. _Please let me breathe._ His chest was getting tighter and tighter, and his heart was pounding, and he just wanted Nick to take some already and get it over with. He was about to burst when suddenly all of it was gone. Nick's tongue was pulled out, his belt buckle lifted from John's belly, and his hands, which were still wrapped around John's wrists and dick, were starting to pull him forward until they let go, and John flopped back onto Bed, panting. Nick had been dragged backwards off Bed by the back of his shirt until his head hit Floor and Sherlock was stamping on it as Nick had done to him.

Now free to move, John crawled to the foot of Bed and watched in shock as Sherlock continued to stamp on Nick's face and neck in rage. Until Nick caught his leg, tripped him in midair, and pinned him down by lying on top of him and holding his wrists behind him. His face was almost purple it was so red, and his veins were bulging bigger than John had ever seen.

"You," he snarled, and John trembled. "Get me the chains." When John didn't move right away, he screamed, "NOW!"

The chains were for when John was especially bad. A few times he had protested giving some or he'd hit Nick because Nick was hitting him, and that was when Nick brought them out. There were all kinds of things he could do with chains. Sometimes he hit John with them, or tied him up and left him that way for a long time, or used them to make taking some worse, or a combination of the three. Two occasions stuck out in John's mind.

One was when at the age of around eight or ten, he couldn't remember which, he had tried, out of curiosity, to see Door's passcode. He just wanted to know what numbers made the beeping sound, and he had almost gotten close enough to see when Nick caught him and roared. After a thorough beating, he had chained John tightly to Table, put a cover over Skylight so that Room was completely dark, and left him there for two days. They were the longest of John's life, stuck lying on his empty and starving belly on that hard surface, bored and ashamed, crying and wetting himself because he couldn't use Toilet. He could only turn his head a little ways from side to side, unable to see anything in the dark, and the rest of him couldn't move at all. He had gotten so hungry and thirsty and panicked that Nick would leave him like this forever. John had been so grateful to see him come back, he had cried and taken off his clothes as soon as he was free. _That's more like it_ , Nick had growled approvingly, kissing him roughly. _I wouldn't have to do this if you didn't make me mad. You only got yourself to blame, sonny._

The second time was when Nick had started to take some one night. It was one of those weird days John never knew how to stop, when his dick was growing and throbbing for no reason, but it had been in the early stages, so he had been able to hide it when Nick came in. But then Nick had rubbed against him and run his hands all over, and suddenly all the fluid was coming out, only instead of going into Toilet like it was supposed to, it was all over Nick's face. Some of it had gotten in his eyes, and John had apologized over and over again through tears, but the next thing he knew, Nick had chained his arms and ankles together and put them both around Nick and over his back, so that John was extra tight when Nick took him. That had been the worst giving John had ever done, it hurt so bad he was bleeding afterward.

As he retrieved them from under Bed with shaking hands, he wondered which one Nick was going to do to Sherlock. He soon had his answer as Nick chained Sherlock's hands behind him as tightly as possible, shoved a dirty handkerchief into his mouth, and chained his ankles.

Nick looked at John one last time. He nodded to the bulge in his pants, which was shrinking but still there. "Get rid of that," he said. "And stay out of my way." John stepped aside and began to rub, ducking down so Nick wouldn't have to see it, and turned his head as Nick threw Sherlock onto the bed, ripping both their clothes off.

"Open up," Nick said, and John braced himself and shut his eyes.

Sherlock screamed, and John burst into silent tears.

* * *

The next morning Nick left early, but not before demanding John bend over Table so Nick could take a little from behind. Surprisingly, it wasn't as bad as he expected. All the anger must have been used up last night. He finished in minutes rather than hours and didn't take any of the food or the extra drawing paper-John's latest Sunday treat-away. Much better than the stuff he had started to do last night.

John stretched and dressed, wincing at his sore backside, and went to check on Sherlock. Nick had taken the handkerchief out of his mouth and removed the chains, but he was still naked. He hadn't spoken or moved from his position since Nick had finished, and his eyes were so wide and red John doubted he had slept. Some of his blood had gotten on the sheets.

He might be strange, but he had saved John from an awful experience. John didn't know how to feel about that. He was relieved that it wasn't him that had to give like that, but he didn't like that it happened to Sherlock either. Maybe he could at least make up for it by helping Sherlock feel better now.

"You all right?" he asked softly. Nothing. "A bath usually helps. And I can make you some breakfast." He got an idea and crossed Room to open Wardrobe. "Nick got me this by accident one time because the size on it was wrong, but I think it might fit you." He placed the pajama trousers and shirt next to Sherlock on Bed, along with one of his bigger pairs of pants that had been cleaned.

A tear slid down Sherlock's cheek. John tried to wipe it away, but Sherlock flinched and turned pale even at the slightest touch. "The soreness goes away after a while," John said sadly. "I promise."

Still no response. John stood there and watched him for a while. Now that he was naked, John could see that Sherlock was quite attractive. In spite of the bruises, his skin almost glowed, and he had a nice little curve at the hip. For some reason, John had a strong urge to run his hand over it. The more he looked, the more he had an odd tingle in his belly. He licked his lips. He was—oh no, not again.

John turned away and sighed. What was the matter with him? He was so filthy it was happening twice in two days. He got rid of it and decided he'd better not look at Sherlock anymore for a while. Instead, he busied himself by finally putting away the food that had sat out all night, making and then having breakfast and taking a bath. He tried to coax Sherlock into eating, but no dice. Night finally came again, and when John couldn't fight the tiredness anymore, he reluctantly slid into bed next to Sherlock, who screamed.

"Stop! Stop!" His hands went wild, pushing an imaginary Nick as tears streamed down his face. John gently held his hand. "Sherlock, it's okay. Wake up, you're dreaming!" After shaking him, he finally got Sherlock to wake up. He was heaving with sobs, and John's heart ached.

"Hey, it'll be okay," he said, and carefully put his arms around him. He was surprised when Sherlock leaned into him. He hugged him shyly. "Thank you, for last night. For trying to save me."

Sherlock squeezed his hand and shook his head. "I can't believe you lived with that for nineteen years." His voice was cracking. "I've been here one night, and I already wish I were dead."

"Don't say that!" John said, cupping his cheek. "You'll be all right, really. It's rough sometimes, but it's not all bad. You just have to do what Nick says, and he won't be as rough. Sometimes if you're really good, he'll bring you nice things."

Sherlock's face dropped. John had meant to cheer him up, but he only cried more. "Is that my life now?" Sherlock whispered, probably to himself. "Worship and serve the man who ruined both our lives?" He turned over. John settled in uneasily.

He was almost asleep when he heard Sherlock whisper something else. "No. Fuck that," he said. "I'll see his arse in jail if it's the last thing I do."


	5. Discovering Love

Neither of them was sure who woke up first that morning; each only knew that as soon as he felt arms around him, he jumped and braced for a fight. Sherlock was still shaky, but he found his anger was motivating him more than he might have expected. Whereas before he could have sworn the world was caving in when he'd thought about what Nick had done, now he was standing up, a fire burning in his belly and his whole body steeling itself.

He must have looked that way now because John shrank back. "I'm guessing you don't feel any better."

Sherlock softened his voice. "No. But I am ready to start working again." John had a sweet face, he was realizing. Whatever he might try, one thing was clear: he was going to need John on his side when he did it. The day before yesterday had taught him that he wasn't strong enough to handle Nick on his own, and it wasn't like he was going to get far anyway if John kept trying to make him stop.

Though Sherlock still couldn't figure a way around the door or the walls, he did know one step he could take that would help them when he could. "How would you like to learn to read?"

John snapped to attention. If he had been a puppy, his ears would have perked right up. "To read? How?"

"I can teach you," Sherlock said gently. "And I could teach you to write too. You could read the text on the telly and know what it says." Plus he would be able to read signs when they got out, and giving John something he wanted would make him more likely to cooperate when the time came.

John smiled, he had a beautiful smile. "You'd really do that?"

"Yes."

"Is it hard to learn to read?" he asked. "I've seen little kids do it on Telly, but there are so many marks it looks complicated."

Sherlock climbed over him and off the bed. "You'll get it, don't worry. Now grab that drawing paper and something to write with, and make us some breakfast. I'm going to take a bath," he said, starting the water. "And once I've scrubbed his filth off me, I'll get you started."

John rushed about the shed, gathering the materials and the food. Sherlock laid back in the tub and breathed heavily. They would get through this together. They had to.

* * *

"From the top, all twenty-six. Go!"

John shut his eyes tight and concentrated. "A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, K, J—"

"J, K," Sherlock corrected. "J comes first. Again."

"A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L, N, M…"

"M comes before N. Again." John made it all the way to S before confusing that letter with X, which he said sounded like the same thing. "They're not the same thing. S has a softer sound and is more common, typically added at the end of words to show that there's more than one of something."

John sighed and traced the letters Sherlock had drawn on the paper in front of him. "Are you sure this will help me learn to read? It sounds like I'm just memorizing a song with a bunch of weird sounds."

Sherlock leaned over the table, ruffling his curls with both hands and wishing he could put product in it. "These letters are the entire English language. Every word you've ever seen is just a combination of them. If you know what each of the letters are, what sounds they make, and what order they're in, you can read or write anything."

"Anything?"

"Mm. Please, try again." He demonstrated for John by reciting the alphabet all the way through, and over and over it went until John could recite it perfectly. From there Sherlock taught him the sounds they made, which took quite a while, so much that Sherlock didn't dare mention silent letters and interchangeable sounds like C being able to make a "cuh" or S sound, like in "center." John struggled with the letters X and Q, insisting that Q was just K with a hidden W and that some arsehole was trying to trick people and K and C were the same anyway, so the old English were a bunch of silly gits. Sherlock laughed, and it felt strange to laugh.

The light shifted, and Sherlock glanced at the skylight. From what little he could see of the sky, it appeared some time had definitely passed. Amazing how much faster the hours went and how much better this whole shitty circumstance was when he had something to do.

"Is this right?" John asked and held up the paper. Sherlock couldn't hide his surprise; they hadn't gotten to writing yet. John had painstakingly, in a left hand that seemed to have a nervous tremor, written the word "Hug."

"H makes the 'huh' sound, U makes 'uh,' and G makes 'guh,' so that means together they make the word 'hug,' right?"

Sherlock beamed. "Yes, that's exactly right. That's all reading and writing is. Knowing what sounds letters make and putting them together to make words." It suddenly occurred to him to ask, "Why 'hug'?"

"Because that's what I want to give you right now," John said shyly, standing up. Sherlock stood too and met him at the side of the table, welcoming him warmly into his arms. _Don't get involved_ , he could hear Mycroft saying in his head. _It could be dangerous to let him get too attached._ Sherlock couldn't be arsed to care. John's head fit nicely against his chest, and he had welled up at the surge of pride in his chest. He had helped John write his first word.

"Thank you, Sherlock," John said. "Thank you for taking all this time for me."

Sherlock rubbed his back. "You're welcome." This had worked even better than he thought it would. John already cared for him. He sort of cared for John too. Maybe. A bit. In any case, Sherlock didn't let go as fast as he might have, and even pulled him in closer until he felt something stiff between them. John pushed away with his head down and his torso turned away from Sherlock.

"I'm sorry," he whimpered in a thick voice. "I didn't mean for it to happen, I'm so sorry."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock approached him, and he backed away. "Didn't mean for what to happen?"

John closed his eyes and shook his head. He looked like he was trying hard not to cry and Sherlock felt like he'd been struck. "I don't mean to be dirty, but I don't know how to make it stop." He turned around. "Just give me a minute to rub it, I'll get rid of it as fast as I can."

"John, what are you talking about?" Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him around. His arms were crossed in front of his crotch, but even that wasn't hiding it. Sherlock was flattered but bewildered at John's reaction. "It's fine."

"No, it's not," John said, trying to pull his shirt down over it, blushing. "I'm sorry, I know it wouldn't happen if I wasn't such a dirty faggot slut, but I swear I don't try to make it get like this, it just does, and I don't—"

 _"_ _John."_ Sherlock tipped his chin up. "Look at me." The blush slowly faded from his cheeks. Sherlock held them gently. "That is all a lie. You are not dirty, you are not a faggot, and you are not a slut. This," he nodded to John's lower body, "is _normal_. It's a natural part of being a human, specifically a cisgender human male. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

John shook his head, confused. "No. This isn't normal, it's—"

"Yes, it is, John. I'm a biology minor at Uni, and I can tell you an erection is as normal as eating and using the toilet."

"No, it's not! It never happened before I turned twelve."

"That's because your body wasn't ready for it yet, but now it is." He tried to think of how to explain the reproductive process in language an illiterate could understand. "When we get to a certain age, our bodies' instinct is to want to have babies. An erection is part of that. It helps people have sex."

John's face was blank for a second before Sherlock sighed and said, "You don't know what sex is, do you?"

"I've heard people talk about it on Telly, but no."

This was going to be tricky. "You know what Nick does to you all the time?"

"Take some?"

"Yes, but in your case, it's forced, so it's rape. Rape is sex that is forced. That penetration, where he sticks his penis into you? When people do that because they want to and not because they have to, that's sex. When a man does it to a woman, they can make a baby. But in order for that to happen, a man has to have an erection, and it happens because the man experiences a sexual attraction to someone. Do you understand?"

He didn't even have to ask to know that John didn't understand at all. "You mean people on Telly give some because they want to?"

Sherlock pulled him into a hug again. "I know it seems hard to imagine, but when the giving is done because you wanted to and not because someone made you, it can feel different." He risked brushing a hand over John's pants, and John shuddered. "The important thing is that this is nothing for you to be ashamed of. In fact, I'm happy about it. It means that you like me."

John blushed. "I do like you."

Sherlock hugged him tight, and his own pants began to feel tight. So many emotions were swirling inside him that he made a spontaneous and horrendously irrational decision. "John. I need you to do something very, very important, all right?"

"Anything."

Sherlock took his hand. "I'm going to take you to bed and show you what I'm talking about. And I want you to promise me, to _swear_ to me, that if I do anything you don't like, anything at all that you don't want me to do, even if it's something small, you'll tell me. If I touch you in a way or a place you don't like, anything at all, you tell me. I promise Iwon't get angry or upset. All right?"

Still a little puzzled, John nonetheless said, "All right."

Sherlock took him to bed. They lay side by side; Sherlock wanted them to be in equal positions. Since Nick had been fast and rough, Sherlock went slow and gentle. He poured love into his touch, stopping every so often to ask if he could take an article of clothing off. Out of habit, John still tried to hide his growing erection at times, and Sherlock always took that opportunity to whisper in his ear that he was good, he was pure, there was nothing wrong with him at all. Sometimes Sherlock's hand would slip too low and John would rapidly, fearfully, whisper, "I don't like that," and wince, expecting a strike. Sherlock moved his hand back and gave him a reassuring kiss. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you for telling me."

After a few minutes of this, John began to relax and asked, "Why does it feel so different?" He nuzzled Sherlock's neck. "This actually feels really, really good. It's never once felt good before."

"Because there's love," Sherlock told him. God, how did that happen? He was admitting he loved someone he met two days ago. He had never felt anything like this. "Because you're with someone who respects and cares about you and your feelings instead of someone who uses you to make himself feel good." Unable to stop himself, he gently took hold of the waistband of John's pants. "How about these?"

John hesitated, and Sherlock started to remove his hands when John asked, "You're not going to stick yours in me, are you?"

"No."

"Are you going to grab it and squeeze it real hard?"

"No."

"Then okay." Sherlock carefully removed them, and John grunted at his new freedom. Sherlock whispered a proposal in John's ear, and the latter widened his eyes. "I do that to Nick all the time. Are you sure it's okay for me to have it? You actually want my…"

Sherlock kissed his hand. "If you would have me, it would be my pleasure."

John nodded. "Okay." Sherlock had just barely gotten his mouth around him when he grabbed the sheets and moaned. "Oh wow, this does feel good. No wonder Nick wants it so much. God…"

After bringing them both off, Sherlock cleaned them both and lay down next to John, snuggling him in his arms. It was the best Sherlock had felt in a long time, possibly in his life, and he was grateful that what was sure to be a vulnerable expression on his face was buried in John's hair. He saw what ordinary people meant now when they talked about falling in love just like that. It defied all logic, but all sorts of things were possible that weren't supposed to be. Flying bees had taught him that much.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?" He tightened his hold around John.

"I'm really, really happy you're here."

Sherlock couldn't honestly say the same, so he kissed him over and over and hoped that would be enough.

"Will it ever feel that way with Nick?" John asked. "I hate it every time he touches me, but sometimes I get an erection when he's taking some. Does that mean it will feel good someday?"

Sherlock hugged him even tighter. He couldn't bring himself to lie. "Probably not," he said. "The body isn't perfect, and sometimes it has reactions that it shouldn't, or the body and mind may want different things."

John was about to say something to that, then froze. Sherlock did too, as they both heard the pounding footsteps. They scrambled to get their clothes on, not knowing what Nick would do at seeing them together but not wanting to risk finding out. The door opened and quickly shut as Sherlock was closing the last button on his jeans.

"Hey there," Nick slurred, lust in his drunken eyes. Sherlock nearly wet himself in fear. He thought of what Nick had done and might do again and let out a small whimper.

"Finally, I've been waiting for you!" John said, stepping in front of Sherlock. Both he and Nick were surprised. "I didn't get to give you very much last time." He held out his hand with a smile. "Come to bed with me? Please?"

Sherlock put a hand to his mouth. _He isn't…_

If he hadn't been so drunk, Nick might have been suspicious. As it was, he smirked. "'Please?' You filthy whore, you." But he took John's hand, and Sherlock saw that smile vanish the moment Nick shoved him down, put a pillow under his belly and gripped his shoulders hard while hurting him, over and over.

Sherlock crouched in a corner and cried quietly. Everything he had felt for John before was doubling and tripling now. He had never met anyone so kind, and he hated himself for feeling relieved. Fortunately, it was overshadowed by the fire roaring up again.

The only thing stronger than Sherlock's resolve to escape was his resolve to do so with John.


	6. The Truth

That night was the longest Sherlock could remember. To his surprise, John slept fine. Nick took ages to finish—Sherlock counted 85 thrusts in total—but when he finally did, both of them settled into bed and slept like it was nothing. Tears had sprung to his eyes when he thought that. For John, this probably _was_ normal. Now that Sherlock knew what it felt like, he could have thrown his arms around John and never let go.

 _I'm involved now, aren't I?_ He couldn't help it. Nick's cruelty and Sherlock's own stupidity had forced them together, and John had done the kindest thing anyone ever had for Sherlock. He looked over at the bed and was amazed at how he could feel so much affection for one occupant and hatred for the other. Fury bubbled in Sherlock's chest at seeing Nick's hand on John's arm, and it was all he could do not to pull John away and scrub his arm with six different soaps. Why couldn't Nick just fucking leave? It was bad enough to rape them, did he have to force them to spend the night with him too?

 _Focus._ Hating Nick wouldn't help him escape. The only way they would have any hope of escape was if they worked together. That would mean a hard conversation with John. Sherlock had trouble being delicate with ordinary people in ordinary situations. They were always getting mad at him for saying something he didn't know was wrong. How could he put delicately the fact that John's whole life was based on lies?

He smiled. _By the way John, you're actually a prisoner, and outer space is not outer space. John, did I tell you that you've missed out on an incalculable amount of the world and life itself for nineteen years?_ Yes, that was sure to go over well.

Sherlock was still rehearsing statements when the morning sun cast a beam through the skylight. Nick stirred, and Sherlock stilled. He started to close his eyes and feign sleep, but it was too late.

"Hey, get me some breakfast."

Sherlock glared. "Sure, I'll just pop over to Costa."

"From the fridge. Don't make me tell you again."

A three-second internal debate led Sherlock to decide it was better to cooperate for now. He got up and opened the fridge, but didn't bother to keep the smart-arse out of his voice. "Milk and nothing else. What a generous selection."

Nick sat up. Ugh, he was naked. "Cereal, a bowl, and a spoon are on the counter and shelves. And instead of bitching like a spoiled brat, it'd be nice to have a little more gratitude for what I spent my hard-earned money on."

Sherlock slammed the bowl onto the counter hard enough to jerk John awake. "If you really wanted to save your money and get some gratitude, you'd open that damn door!"

He should never have turned his back. Sherlock heard one footstep before his hair was yanked hard enough to come out of his head and Nick's punches were robbing him of breath.

"Teach you to talk to me like that again." In the stomach. "I keep you fed, I keep you safe, and all you can do is bitch." In the face. "Just a dumb fucking fag." Kick to the back, sending Sherlock to the ground with a few hairs missing.

There was movement behind him. "Here Nick, I've got your breakfast." Cereal hitting a bowl. Refrigerator opening and closing. Milk pouring. "Please, just leave him alone. He doesn't know."

"He better learn!" Nick sat down at the table and spoke with his mouth full of cereal. Out of the corner of his bruised eye, Sherlock saw John fetching Nick's clothes. _Like the well-trained servant he is._ "Here I've been laid off, and I'm still managing to bring you food and what do I get for it?"

John rushed to say, "I know, I know. Thank you for everything."

 _For God's sake, don't thank this monster._ But before Sherlock could be properly enraged, he had to address the first thing Nick said. The part that made his heart drop to his knees.

"You've been laid off?" he asked.

"Not that it's any of your goddamn business, but yeah, I've been laid off."

Sherlock struggled to sit up. His head was killing him. "And are you looking for another job?"

"There ain't no fucking jobs!" He threw the bowl at Sherlock's head; John caught it just in time. He pointed a hairy finger at Sherlock. "You have no idea what it's like out there!" He seized Sherlock's arm and pushed him to the wall. "Both of you, face the wall."

Instinctively Sherlock started to turn around, but John held his face forward. "He means it," John whispered. The keypad beeped four times, then the latch loosened. The door opened. Sherlock raced for it, his heart picking up speed as a breeze brushed his face, but before he could touch the grass, he was thrown back, and Nick's boot covered his face with dirt and bruises. A tooth came loose and Sherlock lay still. The door shut behind Nick and Sherlock finally let the tears flow.

John stood over him, unsure what to do. Sherlock wondered if he had ever seen anyone cry before. Carefully John put a warm, gentle hand over his. When that was accepted, he slowly helped Sherlock up and over to the bed. Sherlock leaned into him and sobbed.

"It's all right, Sherlock. I promise it stops hurting after a while."

Sherlock buried his face in John's shoulder. He didn't know how to make John understand that being beaten wasn't what scared him; he could handle that. A short-term inconvenience for his transport. The long-term problem was Nick not having a job. No money meant no food. Worse, it meant no home for Nick. No home meant no yard. No yard meant repossession, and repossession meant discovery, and discovery was something Nick would never let happen.

If they didn't find a way to escape now, it was only a matter of time before Nick killed them.

* * *

A few more minutes of crying led Sherlock to fall asleep on the bed. He woke up shivering, and it was surprisingly dark for midday. "Why is it so cold?"

"That's what I'm wondering," John said worriedly. "It's never been cold before, and the lights aren't working. And look." He blew, and his breath formed a small cloud. "Do you know what that is?"

Sherlock started to explain the scientific process of water vapor condensation, then remembered John wouldn't understand that. "It's just your breath. Cold weather makes it more visible." He hugged himself. If it had never been cold in here, that left one possibility. "Looks like Nick cut the power to punish me." Seeing John's blank look, he explained, "Power, or electricity, is what makes the lights go on and keeps this place warm. Nick got rid of it because he was mad."

John blew another cloud, fascinated by it. "Sure makes Bed extra cozy." He joined Sherlock on it and smiled. "You know, it's so weird having someone to talk to that isn't Nick. But it's kind of nice."

Sherlock thanked him gently but bitterly. He had to take advantage while Nick wasn't here. All of the prepared speeches in the world wouldn't make it any easier. "John, I know this is hard for you to understand. But Nick has been lying to you. Everything he's told you about Room, how you came to be in it—hell, _life itself_ is wrong."

John's smile vanished. "What do you mean? How do you know?"

"Because I've been out there." He pointed to the skylight. "I'm _from_ out there. It's not outer space, John. It's the world."

John was silent a moment before asking, "What world?"

"The world. You know how you see green grass and trees and blue sky on telly?" John nodded. "All of that is real. Everything you've seen on telly is real."

John recoiled. "Everything? Even SpongeBob?"

Sherlock groaned. "No, not that. That's a drawing. I'm talking about when you see people that look like us. They're all real."

"How can that be?" John shook his head. "You're not making any sense, Sherlock."

This wasn't working. He would have to explain it a different way. "Nineteen years ago, there was a young girl at college—"

"What's that?"

"It's a kind of school, like the kids on telly go to only it's for adults. Anyway, she was there, and then a bad man came along and forced her into his truck. He drove her to his house, locked her in a shed in his backyard, and kept her there until she had a baby. Then he killed her, and her baby grew up in the shed." Sherlock waited for it to sink in. It didn't. "John. _You're_ that baby. The girl was your mother, Nick is the bad man, and Room is the shed."

"I don't like this story."

"This is what _happened_ , John. This is the truth. I was looking for your mother, and I found Nick's house, and he didn't want me to tell the police what he had done, so he threw me in here with you."

"Stop it!" John was curling into a ball.

"Where do you think he gets all your food? Your clothes? Your furniture?"

"From Telly."

"Have you ever been able to get inside telly, John?"

"No, but—"

"Then what makes you think he can? And he says that you won't survive in 'outer space,' yet he goes out there every day and he does just fine."

"Because he knows stuff! He's smarter than me."

"No, he's a liar. John, listen to me," he begged, seeing John was getting upset. "The world is _enormous_. There's so much out there and billions of people, and Room is just one tiny part of it."

"There couldn't be billions of people, where would they all fit?"

"The world is big enough for them to fit. I know, I've actually been _out there_."

John was shaking. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked with a whimper.

Sherlock pulled him into a hug. "Because if we work together, we can go see the world. We can go someplace where Nick can't hurt us anymore." Seeing John shake harder, he added, "I just want to go home, John. I don't belong in here. Please, will you help me go home?"

To his relief, John nodded. "Okay."

 _Finally._ Sherlock was already forming a plan.


	7. Escape: Part I

Now that Nick was gone and Sherlock had adjusted to the situation as much as could be done with his face still bruised and a black eye that was still swollen, he could think better. He always did some of his best thinking under pressure, and there was no shortage of that. He sat on the bed with his fingertips together and his eyes closed as he took stock of all of the materials and options available to them.

John was still shaken up by their conversation and seemed glad to ignore Sherlock for a while. He had taken the blanket for himself and was doing some sort of stretch while wrapped in it. Apparently he had an exercise routine. A chores routine as well, given that he washed dishes and had laundry hanging on a clothesline.

After a few hours, the lights brightened again, and the air grew warmer. "Suppose Nick decided we've been punished enough," Sherlock muttered. John was just happy that Lamp was working. When he was finished cleaning and exercising, he turned on the telly with the sound muted (at Sherlock's insistence).

 _Okay, so once we do that, there's a 44% probability—_

"Is that real?" Sherlock jumped. John had startled him out of his train of thought. He couldn't even feel annoyed; John's eyes were so wide and childlike. He was pointing at a nature program with animals walking, flying, and swimming across the screen. "Are they out in the world?"

Sherlock smiled. "Yes. All of those animals are real. You could see some of them at the London Zoo."

"Zoos are real too?" He sounded the tiniest bit excited.

Sherlock sat beside John on the floor. "Those are real too."

"Dogs and cats?"

"Yup." His smile twitched at the memory. "I had a dog as a pet."

John lit up. "I used to imagine I had a dog in here." He laughed. "The only real animal I've ever seen was Mouse. I couldn't believe it. It was sitting right there." He pointed to where the refrigerator stood. "I tried to touch it, but Nick threw Chair at it and killed it. He said Mouse would bite and steal food. I was crushed."

Sherlock threw himself toward the area John pointed, searching for a weakness in the walls. There was a tiny crack, just big enough for a mouse to get through, but no matter how he pushed and prodded it, it wouldn't go any wider. _Damn._

"Are you still looking for a way out of Room?" John asked, a bit nervously.

"Mm." Sherlock stood up. "I thought there might be a hole we could crawl out of, but no dice. But that's all right because I've thought of another plan." He turned off the telly, ignoring John's glare. "I've been thinking about the way Nick operates, how criminals like him tend to react to things."

John's answer was a blank stare. Somehow he still didn't seem to understand that he was a prisoner. Sherlock would have to work on that. "He took Jane Watson, not to kill her but to keep her. When he did kill her, it was by accident. He could have killed you and done so more easily because no one knew about you, but he chose to keep you alive all this time. The same happened with me even though I'm more trouble for him than you are. Which leads me to believe that for whatever reason, he's reluctant to kill. Nick likes to keep his prisoners, get as much use out of them as he can. Perhaps he doesn't want to risk a murder charge. That's good for us, we need to capitalize on that fear and the desire to keep us around. So what we're going to do is pretend that you're sick—"

"Why me?"

Sherlock sighed with impatience. "Because you're new to this whole acting thing and it's easier to pretend to be sick than to pretend to be worried your friend is sick. As I was saying: we'll pretend that because the power was cut, it got so cold that you've contracted a disease and might die, so that he'll be forced to take you to hospital, at which point you'll tell the nurse or somebody what's going on and they'll alert the police."

John nodded. "Ah, I see. Good. Great."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Well…do we have to do it now? I mean, what's the rush?"

 _For God's sake, how does he not get it?_ "Yes, of course we have to do it now! Nick is facing foreclosure, and if that happens, this shed will be discovered, and he'll get caught. He can't let that happen, and to make sure it doesn't, he could end up killing us. The longer we wait, the more danger we're in, do you understand?"

"Yes, yes, all right." John still didn't sound sure. "What do you want me to do?"

* * *

"Ow! Sherlock, that's way too—Christ, what are you doing?" John was red-faced with a burning-hot cloth on his head and Sherlock's vomit all over his face, on top of being practically pinned to the bed with blankets. Sherlock removed his finger from the back of his own mouth and said sympathetically, "Making you look sick. It needs to be believable."

Ignoring John's protests, he returned to the stove, dipped the cloth back into the boiling water, and wrung it out. "Once more should do it." He turned off the stove and tried to apply the cloth carefully, but John still cried out.

"Agh—Sherlock, it's too hot. And this shit smells horrible." He moaned. "At this rate, I really will be sick."

"All the better," Sherlock said. He cupped John's face. "Now remember. Close your eyes, give a little moan, but don't talk. Try not to maintain eye contact either, it's best to just let me do the talking. When Nick gets you into his truck, observe as much as you can about the location and the directions you take. Then when you get to hospital, tell them that you and Sherlock Holmes were abducted and held captive. The note and the police should be able to take it from there." He was doubtful about this, but perhaps if Mycroft got involved (as he surely would), it would be enough.

Sherlock moved his hand to John's waist. "You've still got the note, right?" John retrieved it from his pocket, opened it, then put it back. "Good. That'll give them more details in case you forget something." He sat on the edge of the bed and locked his eyes on the door. "Now we just wait for him to show up."

The next few minutes were agonizingly long, and Sherlock began to worry that John's forehead would cool off before it was time. _Why the hell hasn't he come back yet?_

He wouldn't tell John, but the real reason he wasn't faking an illness himself was because (1) Nick was more likely to care about John, if he was capable of caring for anyone, and (2) John had never known freedom, and this was likely his only chance to get it. There were people searching for Sherlock Holmes, people who would never stop searching. Nobody was searching for John Watson. If one of them had to be left behind, it should be the one with a better chance of being found.

"Sherlock?" John's voice was so small that Sherlock tore his eyes away from the door to lean in. "Are you sure I can do this? What if I go outside and…and I…"

"And what?" Sherlock asked gently, pushing his hair back.

John shut his eyes and shook his head. "I don't know, but I'm getting a stomachache thinking about it."

Sherlock pulled the covers up and kissed his cheek. "You can do this, John. Everything will be fine, you'll see." He started to lie down for a cuddle but stopped as a familiar thud made them both tense.

"Turn over and act sick," Sherlock hissed, then jumped to his feet just as Nick shut the door and locked them in once again. "There you are!" He rushed to Nick, trying to keep down that roil of revulsion he felt whenever he saw that ugly beard and those cold eyes. God, he _hated_ this man.

Nick pointed at him. "Next time you learn to—"

"John's sick!" Sherlock motioned to the lump in the bed. "Do you have any idea how freezing it was in here? Now he's throwing up and running a high fever."

"You brought that on yourself." Nick lowered his hand and crossed to John, who gave a surprisingly believable moan. That stomachache might have been a stroke of luck. Sherlock kept his eyes on Nick, searching for any sign of compassion, empathy, humanity.

"Jesus Christ, he's on fire," Nick muttered, feeling John's forehead. John shuddered, facing the wall.

"Yes, I said as much," Sherlock insisted. "He needs to be in hospital now."

Nick moved his hand from John's forehead and stilled. For one glorious moment, Sherlock honestly thought he would do it. Then Nick turned around. "I'll bring him some antibiotics tomorrow," he said gruffly.

"That's not enough!" Sherlock said with a franticness he didn't have to fake. "This is dangerous. His immune system is weak and—"

"Shut up!" Nick slapped Sherlock's hands away, covered the keypad, and entered the code.

 _No no no, this can't be it, it can't be over._ Sherlock rushed to the door. "Please, I'm begging you!" He could see grass, the fence, a sliver of sky, and then it was gone. Nick's footsteps faded away.

"Dammit!" Sherlock slammed the side of his fist into the door so hard it made John jump. "We were so close." He was trembling. "So fucking close."

John sat up and set aside the cloth. "Guess it's safe to say I'm not going?"

"Not tonight," Sherlock said with a deep breath. "However," he said as he rejoined John on the bed. "All is not lost yet."

"Oh." John's face had illumined for a moment and now darkened in disappointment. "You have another plan already?"

Sherlock smiled. "Actually, tonight was just the first part of a bigger plan. Tomorrow is Part Two."

"Tomorrow?" John held his stomach. "That soon?"

Sherlock put an arm around him. "It's okay, we don't have to talk about it until the morning. Probably better that we get some sleep anyway."

John seemed satisfied with that, and the two of them snuggled together in the bed. Sherlock turned out the light and held John to him. The latter slept peacefully, something Sherlock was grateful for. He didn't want John to see the tears traveling down his cheeks as he pondered the danger of what the man he'd come to love would have to do.


	8. Escape: Part II

They were both tense at breakfast, with John waiting for Sherlock to reveal the new plan and Sherlock waiting for a good time to reveal it. The first thing he had done was stand under the skylight and try to get an idea of the weather. He tried to find a weather report on telly, but either they were finished for the day or the telly didn't have that channel. Fortunately, it looked sunny.

He smirked bitterly with a pit in his stomach. Never in his life had Sherlock ever thought twice about the ability to learn the weather. The skill of simply going outside or doing a Google search. Always accessible. Always right there. That brought his attention to John, eating his cereal in blissful ignorance. All he knew of the sky or the weather was that rectangle on the roof. He had never felt sunshine. Rain. Wind. Snow.

 _But now he will._ Sherlock steeled himself with the thought. He would not allow himself to consider any other possibility. The plan would work because it had to, that was all.

"John," he said. The spoon clanged in the cereal bowl. "You know how last night we pretended you were sick?"

"Yeah, of course." He tilted his head. "Is that what we're doing again?"

"No." Sherlock met those beautiful eyes. "This time we're going to pretend you're dead."

John licked his lips. "Sorry, what? I'm dead?"

 _"_ _Pretending_ to be dead. It's actually easier than pretending to be sick because you won't be making a sound. You just have to stay silent and stiff."

"Stiff?"

"Yes, that's what dead bodies are like. Stiff."

John rested his chin on his hands. "And then what?"

Sherlock pointed to the rug below them. "We're going to roll you up in this rug, so Nick won't know that you're actually alive. I'll tell him you've died, and he'll pick up the rug and take you outside. He can't leave a dead body in here or in his house because of the smell, and it's too much of a risk for him to bury it in the yard, plus it doesn't have the soil for it. So what will he have to do?"

"Take me somewhere else," John said, sounding more than a little scared at the thought.

"Exactly!" Sherlock grinned. "He'll put you in his truck and drive off so he can find someplace out of the way to bury you." _Just like he did with your mother._ His grin faded. Poor woman was nothing but dust now, if even that.

"Bury me?" John went pale. "You are kidding, right?"

"It's all right, you're going to escape long before he gets to that point." He took John's hands in his. "Listen to me: here's how it's going to work. After Nick has put you in his truck, you're going to stay in the rug until he starts driving. Once the truck is moving, wiggle out of the rug and move toward the side of the truck. When the truck slows down—this is the most important part—when the truck slows down and stops for a stop sign, you jump out and run. Run until you find somebody, and tell them that you and I were abducted. Give them the note too." John was silent, blinking confusedly. "You understand all of that?"

"Who's somebody?"

"Anybody. The first person that you see." Another thought occurred to him. "And make sure that when you wiggle out of the rug that you don't sit up until it's time to jump. If you do, Nick will see that you're alive and might turn the truck around."

"A real person? Like you and me?"

Sherlock squeezed his hands. "Yes."

John puckered his lips and crossed his arms. Sherlock missed those hands. "So I'm in the rug and I'm dead, and then I'm alive and in the truck, and then running to somebody?"

Sherlock struggled to swallow his impatience. "Just remember: truck, wiggle out when Nick's driving, jump when he slows down, run, tell somebody we've been abducted."

John said nothing. He took his cereal bowl to the sink and began to wash it. Sherlock wanted to shake him. _How can he think of washing dishes when we have another chance to escape?_ "Well?"

"What if Nick unwraps me?"

"He won't. I'll make sure of that."

"What if there's nobody around?"

"Then run up to the first house you see—preferably one with a car in the driveway—and bang on the door. Remember to run and scream. Scream _loud_ , John."

"What if Nick doesn't drive far enough? He could stop the truck before I have time to unwrap myself."

Sherlock huffed. "There's no place around here that's remote enough for him to safely bury a human body without being seen, John. He'll _have_ to go somewhere far."

John was shaking his head fast. "No."

"Yes. John, _please_."

"For Christ's sake, you're the one who wants to leave so bad, you do it!" John's hands were shaking. "This plan's too complicated for me. Being sick was simple enough, but now you're talking about trucks and cars and houses and stop signs and somebody and—none of it makes any sense!"

Sherlock slowly got to his feet, stood behind John, and wrapped his arms around him, putting his lips to his ear. "Hey. I know you're scared. I know this plan isn't perfect. But it's all we have. And right now, we have all day to practice. I'll walk you through the plan, step by step, until you've got it down. Okay?"

John clutched his hand. "Do you promise you'll be with me in the world?"

Sherlock couldn't promise that. He couldn't voice what he feared, what was simmering in his brain and stomach: that once John escaped, Nick would come back to kill Sherlock and keep him from testifying. John couldn't know that or he would never go through with the plan. Sherlock kissed him. "If this goes well, if you follow my instructions exactly, we'll both be in the world together, for as long as we want. And I know you're going to love it."

The tension in John's shoulders seemed to ease slightly at that. "All right. What do we do first?"

* * *

The next several hours were filled with frustration for them both. All of the steps were indeed complicated for someone who had never had to remember much in his life. Worse, rolling John up in the rug proved to be much harder than Sherlock had anticipated. John's height was an advantage and partly why Sherlock had insisted he be the one to carry out the plan, but rolling him up in a way that wasn't painful but still allowed him to wiggle out took over an hour. First John had complained that Sherlock was hurting him as he pushed him over and over across the rug. Sherlock tried rolling him up tighter for more of a buffer between him and the ground, but that prevented John from being able to wiggle out.

"Roll, John, roll. Faster!"

"I can't! Sherlock, I'm stuck. Get me out, I can't breathe!" He had been angry after that one and Sherlock feared he'd quit, but he offered to adjust the process further. They shortened the rug so there wouldn't be as many turns. John wore his jacket for a softer roll. But there was still the issue of not having enough space, so he kept bumping into the bed, the chairs, and the refrigerator as he was rolled in and out of the rug.

After the eighth time, John shoved Sherlock away. "Fuck this and fuck you."

Desperate, Sherlock asked him to recite the steps of the plan. "Oh, I'll tell you the steps of the plan. The steps are shut up, go fuck yourself, and leave me alone."

"John, you can't give up now!" Sherlock said, near tears. "Please, we're so close. You were getting it. Each time you've unrolled, you've gotten better."

His plea went unanswered. John returned to the bed and faced the wall with the covers draped over his shoulders. Sherlock pressed his fist to his mouth and fought to keep the black thoughts at bay. His plan had sounded so foolproof when it first came to him, but if John wouldn't cooperate, it was over. He would live out the rest of his life in a shed if he even survived Nick's money troubles, and given the data on confinement situations like this, there was a high probability he would go insane.

"Understand that if you choose to stay here, you will be doing it alone," Sherlock said, suppressing a sob. "I love you, but I've already made it clear to you that I can't live like this. Either work with me or have only a rapist and murderer for company for the rest of your life."

John turned around, and Sherlock ached at seeing tear tracks on his face too. "Why are you doing this to me? This is my home, why don't you get that?"

"I _do_ get it, but I wish _you'd_ get that I'm taking you to something better. Much better than you can possibly imagine."

John sat up and pointed to the skylight. "Whatever the world has, I clearly don't need. You might remember that I've lived here for nineteen years, and I've been just fine."

Sherlock rushed to take his face in his hands. "You've _survived_ for nineteen years, John. You haven't lived at all." He stepped back and spread his arms. "What do you have to look forward to here? A static-filled program on a crap telly? Whatever Nick might be feeling generous enough to give you? That's nothing. In the world, you can have millions of things to look forward to, and they don't depend on the changing moods of a monster. You wouldn't have to budget your food anymore either. In the world, you can have all the food you want whenever you want it."

"How the hell is that possible?"

"It just _is_. Not to mention the fact that you'd never be raped again."

John jumped a little in the bed, and Sherlock knew he'd hooked his attention. That was a tenuous promise to make considering Nick was hardly the only rapist in the world, but Sherlock could do everything in his power to make it true.

"You mean…I'd have food and water and everything I need, and I wouldn't have to give some to get it?"

Sherlock's smile trembled. He licked the salty tear trickling to his lips. "Exactly."

John threw the covers aside. "All right. I'll give it another try."

* * *

After one more anxious check to the skylight, Sherlock knelt on the floor next to John, who was lying on top of the rug in preparation. "It's almost time. What's the plan?"

"Stay stiff, wait for Nick to drive, wiggle out and get to the side while staying down, jump when the truck slows down, run and scream, find somebody, and give them the note."

Sherlock rewarded him with a sweet kiss. "Perfect." He laid his head on that soothing heartbeat, murmuring into it. "You're a smart man, John Watson. You won't fail me."

John played with his curls. His left hand was trembling. "Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"You'll be there with me, right?"

Sherlock lifted his head. "What do you mean?"

Those beautiful eyes. "When we're in the world? You'll be there with me the whole time, right?"

A beating and rape from Nick and an overdose on cocaine hadn't struck Sherlock's heart like that did. That monster hadn't only stolen John's life and mother, he had infected his mind. Made him afraid of the unknown and anything outside of this box. And Sherlock couldn't give him an honest answer. He hugged John harder than he'd hugged anyone and hid his face.

 _I don't know, John. I don't know if we'll ever see each other again after this._ Even if he got lucky and Nick let him live, it was entirely possible that Nick might decide to take him somewhere else. Exchange one prison for another. There were so many things that could go wrong with this plan Sherlock couldn't even begin to count them all. He could only hope that John would remember all of the steps through the most important and dangerous moment of his life and that he himself hadn't left anything out.

"Of course," Sherlock forced himself to say. "We'll be together. I'll take you to the zoo to see the animals. You can pet a real dog and feed birds in the park." He squeezed John tight. "You have a lifetime of things to catch up on."

John kissed his cheek, and they lay down, calming each other. Just as their hearts were slowing, they heard the footsteps. John let out a little cry. Sherlock rushed to wrap him up in the rug.

"Stay stiff," he reminded him frantically. "You can do this." He turned the rug one last time and threw himself over it just as the door opened.


	9. Freedom

John barely had time to close his eyes and go stiff before Sherlock threw himself over Rug and Nick stepped into Room. He slammed Door shut and gruffly said, "Antibiotics." Something in a container shook.

 _Stay stiff. Truck._ This was the "easy" part since all John had to do was stay stiff and quiet. He could focus on that and not think about leaving Room. He pushed that thought away and tried to breathe as silently as possible. The rug was so tight and stuffy it was hard to breathe or hear, especially with Sherlock sprawled on top of him.

"He got worse overnight," Sherlock sobbed, and it sounded so real that John had to remind himself not to comfort him. "And he didn't wake up." He must have been playing it up, John could feel his body moving on top of him with sobs.

"Damn," Nick muttered, and John was hurt when he sounded more annoyed than sad. Was Sherlock right? Did Nick really not care about him?

"Don't touch him!" he yelled, and John heard what sounded like a slap. _Stay_ s _tiff._ If Nick tried to touch him, it would all be over. That wouldn't be such a bad thing, but Sherlock wouldn't be happy.

"Fine, okay," Nick said. His voice was far away. "Jesus. Must have been pretty serious."

The pressure on John's back eased up. He could imagine Sherlock's red face full of tears. "You _killed_ him!" he shouted.

"Take it easy!" Nick snapped. The container shook again, then something hit the floor. What was Nick throwing? Was it the antibiotics? Sherlock didn't seem to care, he just kept crying. Staying stiff was getting hard. John wanted to open his eyes.

"You know he can't stay here, right?"

"No," Sherlock whimpered. "But he can't be buried here. I'll—I'll feel him." John wanted to laugh at that. It didn't sound like something Sherlock would say. "Where are you going to take him?"

Nick sighed. "I'm thinking."

"Someplace nice," Sherlock insisted. "It's the least you could do for him."

"Sure. Whatever. As soon as it gets dark—"

 _"_ _Now!"_ Sherlock wailed. "Please, I can't take it. I can't keep seeing his body." More sobs. John fought a smile. He knew from experience that Nick hated crying.

"Okay, okay. Get off, I'll take him." John went stiffer than ever, trying not to shake. Sherlock moved away, still crying and begging Nick to be gentle. Nick barked at Sherlock to face the wall, and then his hands were on Rug. _Stiff stiff stiff oh my god it's working. It's happening._ John had to open his eyes just a tiny bit as Nick lifted him up, tucking him under one arm while he entered the code for Door with the other. Floor was further away than it had ever been. Nick's arm was rough and right under his stomach, making it even harder to breathe. Maybe he should hold his breath. He was supposed to be dead, after all.

 _Beep, beep, beep._ Door was swinging wide. Just before closing his eyes again, John caught Sherlock facing the wall, and his shaking shoulders gave John an awful feeling in his stomach that Sherlock was crying for real this time. _Quick, close your eyes. Stiff._ Nick stepped forward and John was rocking back and forth under his arm. He felt sick.

 _Bang._ Door. It was closed. Were they outside now? They must be, it was so cold all of a sudden. John wanted to look but was too scared to risk it. There was a crunching sound under Nick's feet. What was that sound?

 _Step, step, step, step._ Something touched John's face, or did it? He felt something move his hair slightly, but it disappeared as quickly as it came, having whistled for a second. _Wind? Like in the movies?_ Was that real too?

More steps, then Nick stopped. He set John down. Floor was gone. Now there was a new Floor, and it smelled different and was softer and made a crunchy sound. Nick grunted, doing something John couldn't see. He heard something move with a squeaky sound. Suddenly he was back up again, but not for long, as Nick shoved him onto something hard. _Truck?_

This new, new, Floor was bumpy and harder than Floor in Room. John heard several sounds he couldn't place, like doors opening and closing, and more footsteps. This had to be Truck. Sherlock had said that was where Nick would put him. _Roll out when he's driving, stay down until it slows, then jump._ Nick wasn't driving yet, right? What if John rolled out too soon?

 _Badadadada VROOOM_. "What was that?" John whispered. He opened his eyes just a fraction. In front of him was the latest Floor, black with bumps all over it. He stifled a gasp as he and Rug began to move. No, it was Truck that was moving.

"Nick must be driving," he said, a little louder this time. When no one responded and the movement continued, John began to wiggle. _Truck, wiggle out, stay down until it slows, then jump._ What was the rest of the plan again? He couldn't remember. Everything was too fast. Why was the world so fast?

Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle. The movement stopped. John froze. "Oh no." He was supposed to jump, and he wasn't even out of Rug yet. Before he could go any further, Truck moved again. Shit, he had missed it. Did this mean the plan was ruined? Had he let Sherlock down?

Regardless, he had to keep trying. He rolled and rolled just like he had been doing in Room all day, and finally, after several turns, he was able to push Rug away.

"My god."

High above him, higher than Skylight had been, was the bluest thing he'd ever seen. Like someone had taken Skylight and multiplied it by a million. Right in the middle of it was a big light—no, the sun. The sun was real too, and it was hurting his eyes. He squinted and shielded them with his hand.

John could have stayed like this for hours. There was so much of it, how was it possible that there could be so much? How could blue be that blue? How did it get so high? All he could do was gaze at it through his fingertips, forgetting everything else. _This is the sky. The sky is real._

The sky wasn't the only thing there either. John couldn't decide where to look first. On the sides were short black walls, behind him was a longer red wall with windows, and behind those were lines of trees and long black lines stretching between brown poles just like in Telly. Truck was moving so fast John couldn't look at them long, and Wind must have been real because it was touching him harder now.

Before he could think about it much more, Truck stopped, jerking John forward. He started to move to the side, but before he could, it was moving again. Damn, he'd missed another stop. How did anyone do things in the world when there was so much to see and everything went so fast?

Now that he knew the stops came up quickly, John was determined to be ready for the next one. He crawled to the side of Truck; thankfully Sherlock had told him which side or he would have been confused. He wanted to peek over the little wall and see what was there, but he was too afraid Nick might see him.

 _How big is the world?_ he wondered. It was already bigger than he'd imagined it to be, and he hadn't thought it was possible for a place to be wider than Room. Did all of it look like this? How far did the sky go?

He didn't have time to wonder. Truck was slowing again. John hoped his heart wouldn't beat out of his chest. He gripped the wall. _That's weird, my hand isn't trembling. It sure as hell should be._ John risked raising his head up just to see over the wall. There was a line of houses, and in front of the truck was a red sign with STOP in white on it. John braced himself. Truck stopped. John got his legs under him in a crouch position, both hands on the wall—

Truck lurched forward, and John fell, thumping to the Floor so hard there was no way Nick didn't hear it. Truck stopped again. "You little shit!" A door slammed open and shut.

 _Now._ John scrambled up and flung his legs over the truck, touching down hard on…was it grass? Yes, it looked like it. Grass was soft.

"Get over here!" Nick was coming toward him. _Find Somebody._ Sherlock's voice was in his head. _Run and scream. Scream loud, John._ What was he supposed to scream? He didn't know. He started running, and the grass turned into something hard and white—a sidewalk? Nick started running too, and John had just glanced behind at his furious face when something hit him and knocked him to the ground.

"Ugh, mm." All John could do was whimper. This thing was big and on top of him and panting, licking his face with a wet tongue. John shut his eyes. _Sherlock, you didn't tell me this would happen._ He turned his head and opened his eyes. "A dog? Are you a dog?"

"Oh, I beg your pardon, I'm so sorry about that!" someone said. It sounded like a lady. A person. A real, live person like him and Nick and Sherlock. Two sets of footsteps, one he recognized as Nick's, and a lighter set. The thing was moved off him, and John could see now it was a dog, a big dog with a happy tail and a whining voice. It had something around its neck that was connected to a line the lady held in her hand. She was pretty and seemed worried. Was she Somebody? Should John give her the note?

"Are you all right?" Her voice was loud. "I'm so sorry, Boomer gets really excited, I'm trying to train him—Sir, do you know him? Is he okay?"

"He's fine." Nick was even more enormous standing over him. Next thing John knew, Nick had him by the underarms and was standing him up and dragging him. "Let's go."

John pulled away. "No, stop!"

"Sir, is he okay? I know he hit the pavement sort of hard."

"Mind your own business!" Nick shouted. He tightened his grip on John and started to lift him up. _Nononono this can't happen._ "Let go!" John screamed, loud like Sherlock had said. "Sherlock, help me!"

"I'm calling the police!" the lady said. Nick threw John to the sidewalk and ran away. The lady chased after him with the dog, saying something about having his plates. _What does she mean by that?_ Everything was so confusing in the world. John curled up, nursing his newly bruised hand and temple. He missed Room.

Truck made a screeching sound as Nick drove off. John wondered where he was going. Back to Room? The thought chilled him; in a mood like that, he was bound to give Sherlock the beating of his life. John had to finish the plan. _I think I found Somebody. Now I say that Sherlock Holmes and I have been abducted and give her the note._

He started to push himself up, but he needn't have bothered. Somebody was coming back to him, with the eager dog even more eager. She was holding it back and extending her arm to John. "Are you okay, sir? I have his plate memorized and a phone to call Scotland Yard."

John didn't know what to say to that, so he said what he had rehearsed. "Sherlock Holmes and I have been abducted." He quickly retrieved the note and handed it to her, relieved to have the whole thing over with. Avoiding the dog, he sat up and moved to the grass, where it was softer. He looked up at the sky again. It wasn't as nice now. Grey clouds were moving overhead, and a few drops hit John's face. _Rain. Rain hurts._

The lady was asking him frantic questions, and John stayed curled on the grass and ignored her. He wanted Sherlock to come and get him, and take him back to Room.

* * *

Sherlock didn't come, but more real people did. There were at least six of them, and they were speaking to the lady after arriving in cars that had red and blue lights on top. One of them had a camera and was taking pictures, and all of them were talking about the note. John ignored them, curling up tighter when they tried to talk to him. _You never told me I would have to talk to so many people or that there would_ be _so many people._ There was so much Sherlock hadn't told him. Sky was changing color and rain was hitting harder and John ached when he thought of Bed and Telly and Chair. What was Sherlock doing with them? Was Sherlock ever going to be here with him?

"Hey." A man with silver hair sat down next to him. John kept himself in a ball. "It's all right, I'm not gonna hurt you." He put a hand on John's shoulder, and John recoiled. The hand was warm, but still. "We're here to help you."

 _Can you take me back to Room?_ John wanted to ask.

"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade." That was a long name. "You can just call me Lestrade though. Sherlock does." John sat up. Lestrade grinned. "Yeah, I'm a friend of his. Tall guy, dark curly hair?" John smiled and nodded cautiously, still hugging his knees to his chest.

Lestrade was writing something on a small piece of paper. "Okay, we've read your note, and we're running the plates now. Every copper in England is on the lookout for Nick, and we're about to head to his house. Lucky that note had the address. So, we need you to get in the car with us and answer some questions on the way. Can you do that for us?"

If they were going to Nick's house, did that mean they were going to Room? "What happens when we get there?" John asked.

"We'll find Sherlock and get him out of there. I doubt Nick'll be there, but if he is, we'll nab the bastard."

 _So they are taking me to Sherlock._ John nodded. "Okay."

* * *

Riding in a car wasn't as much fun as it looked on Telly. It was crowded with too many real people, and John had to struggle to keep from getting too close to them. The seat wasn't as soft as Bed, and the window was cold against his cheek.

It didn't help that Lestrade was badgering him. "How old are you? Did Nick give you any kind of drugs or medication? Was Jane Watson your mother? Can you tell us what happened to Jane Watson, or do you know anything about her? How did Nick treat you? Did he hurt you? Do you know what his last name is?" John answered as much as he could, but with every question, he felt more like crying. Car was cold and crowded and in the dangerous world. If only he hadn't left Room, he'd be warm and safe, and it would just be him and Sherlock. He decided as soon as the car stopped at Nick's house, he would run back through Door.

As it turned out, he didn't get the chance. More flashing lights and real people were up ahead, and as soon as the car stopped, all but one of the officers rushed out and shut the doors. John raised himself up on his knees and watched them from the window. They were putting up yellow lines with black words on them and standing around talking to each other. Was this Nick's house?

There was no knob on the car's door. John felt around and rushed to the other door to check, but there was no knob there either. He pushed on them, and they didn't budge. "Open!" he said. "Open the doors!"

"Just stay here, John," said the driver. "It won't be much longer."

"Let me out, I want Room and Sherlock!" he said, fighting tears. He got down from his knees and hugged them to his chest again. His left hand was trembling now, and it seemed to be doing so extra hard to make up for earlier.

The officer spoke into a machine. "John's in distress. Might need a sedative or restraints." John rested his face on his knees. Why couldn't he just go back? Why was everything so hard out here?

"John!" He bolted up. _Is it?_ He pressed his face and hands to the window. Far in the distance, from behind the big house, someone was running toward the car. John held his breath until he could see the curls bouncing and the green eyes searching. "John, where is he?"

"SHERLOCK!" John screamed so loud the officer jumped. He pounded on the window, tears streaming down his face. "Sherlock, I'm in this one! Sherlock!"

Closer and closer. Sherlock's face was as tear-stricken as his own, and in seconds he had the door open and was lifting John into the tightest hug either of them had ever had. John held onto him for dear life, clinging to the comfort of someone familiar. Sherlock kissed his face over and over.

"You did it, John," he said. "You saved us. We're free." He squeezed him tight. "Thank you."

After wiping his own eyes, John asked, "Can we go to Bed now?"

"Of course, I'll tell Lestrade to take us somewhere to sleep."

"No," John said, pulling away in annoyance. "I mean _Bed_. In Room."

Sherlock's loving face contorted into disgust. "What? No, of course not. John—" He couldn't finish because John was already running around the house. He dodged the officers' shouts and arms until he could see the little building that was just the right size for Room. There was the side, and there was…

John stopped in front, horrified. Door was gone. He could see inside Room to where Bed and Chair and Table were, but there was smoke coming out of the inside, with yellow lines all around it. He jumped at a hand on his shoulder.

"Can't go in there, sonny. That door was tougher than anything. We had to blow it off to get your friend out. They'll be stripping it now for evidence."

John trembled and sank to his knees, letting out a long, painful wail before more hands pulled him away.


	10. Recovery

Nick was arrested that night and confessed to unintentionally murdering Jane Watson when she tried to stop him from touching John. Sherlock had never thought anything could make him so relieved and righteously happy. He had given Lestrade and texted Mycroft the most thorough description he could of Nick, his truck, his house, and all of the crimes he should be charged with. When Mycroft texted him a mugshot, Sherlock exhaled deeply and smiled.

Since both he and John still had bruising and other physical evidence, they were taken to a local hospital for an overnight stay. Normally Sherlock might have insisted on not waiting one more day before returning to Baker Street, but if there was any possibility the evidence might keep Nick in prison longer, he was willing to put in one night. _Besides_ , he thought as he rubbed John's back worriedly, _John might need some counseling._

John hadn't said a word since seeing the shed blown up. They'd had to carry him back to the car because he wouldn't move. He had cried hard all the way to hospital, where things got even more complicated. An illiterate was incapable of signing consent forms, and there was no designated person to sign on John's behalf. After a lot of arguing, Sherlock got it through to them that he was the closest thing to family John had, and yes, he gave consent to a sedative to help calm John down and a DNA test to verify that he was Jane Watson and Nick's son. They gave it to him and took him and Sherlock to a room where their beds could be next to each other.

After the most uncomfortable examination of Sherlock's life (given that they had to gather evidence of rape), he and John had been left alone to get as much sleep as they could. John slept deeply thanks to the sedative, but Sherlock had tossed and turned. He was relieved to be free, but it didn't feel real. He couldn't help worrying Nick was going to come back any moment.

The next morning dawned bright, and Sherlock wasted no time in opening the curtains and enjoying the sunlight. He was never going to take that for granted again. After a few deductions about the passersby far below him, he heard John stir.

"Where am I?" He still sounded scared; Sherlock rushed to his side. He climbed into bed with him and held his hand, stopping him from pulling at his IV.

"We're in hospital. The people here are taking care of us, making sure we're okay. They said after a few hours, we can go home."

John blinked hard. "But they destroyed Room."

How could he still like that garbage dump of a shed after being out here? Sherlock masked his irritation with a gentle voice. " _My_ home, John. It's in London, and you'll see that it's a much better home than Room."

"Will there still be Sunday treat?"

Sherlock laughed. "John, now that we're free, we can have as many treats we want on whatever day we please." Maybe he could get John excited about something. "Hasn't there ever been anything on telly that you always wanted to try? A place you wanted to go, or food you wanted to eat? I know you mentioned the zoo and dogs."

John shrugged. To be fair, the one he had met yesterday might have scared him off dogs. He leaned into Sherlock.

"Everything will be okay, John. I promise."

* * *

The next few hours were busy. Sherlock was on the phone, talking to the Yard and reassuring his frantic parents and Mrs. Hudson that yes, he was all right and would be home in a few hours. Mycroft showed up too, which was annoying. To his credit, though, he had tracked down the contact information for John's family.

"Jane's mother—John's grandmother—died a few years ago, supposedly of a broken heart if you can believe that, but her father is still living. As far as we can tell, he and Nick are John's only living relatives."

Sherlock glanced at John, who was eating his first meal in the world. The nurse was teaching him how to cut with a knife and fork, so he was distracted. "Have you told him?"

"The Yard informed him of his daughter's death and that her killer had been arrested. He knows he has a grandson, but I'm not sure what his plans are regarding that."

Sherlock frowned. "Surely he plans to come see him? Or I could ask Lestrade to take us to his house first."

Mycroft shrugged. "Here's his phone number if you want to work something out. Which reminds me, I'm going to give John his own phone in a minute to help him stay in contact. If you ask me, he's enough of a handful on his own."

Sherlock didn't like that tone. "What do you mean?"

"Sherlock, do you have any idea how difficult it's going to be to integrate John into society?" Mycroft asked, counting on his fingers. "He has no birth certificate, no national insurance number, no home as of yet, no job or skills to speak of, no education, and no money. According to the British government, he doesn't exist. Sherlock, he can't even read or write."

"So _get him those things_ ," Sherlock snapped. "Don't roll your eyes, I know you can. And there are plenty of adult education programs we could enroll him in and tutors we could hire. Worst comes to worst, I'll keep teaching him to read and write myself."

"You do that. Though I promise nothing, I'll see what I can do," Mycroft said, as if he wasn't the most powerful man in England, and left with the nurse after teaching John how to use his new phone and saying over and over how he mustn't lose it. Sherlock moved to John's bedside and kissed his head. Now that the nurse had left, John was disregarding the silverware and eating the chicken with his hands, looking adorable doing it. Sherlock would have to teach him for real later on. He told him he was going to step outside for a minute, then closed the door behind him. A closed door might help John feel better, though it didn't do much for Sherlock.

Talking on the phone wasn't something he enjoyed doing even with people he knew and loved; that's what texting was for, after all. With strangers, it was even worse. Yet the probability of a man Mr. Watson's age being adept at texting was low, and John deserved a better family than Nick. Sherlock dialed the number.

"This better not be another reporter," was the gruff greeting.

"No no, I'm not a reporter," Sherlock said. "I'm Sherlock Holmes."

A pause, then he asked, "Is that the bloke that was in the shed?"

 _For God's sake._ He was going to have to work on his detective career so he could be known for something else. "Yes, I was one of the captives. I'm calling to ask you about John."

"Who?"

Sherlock gripped the phone, baring teeth. _Who? What does he mean, who?_ "Your grandson. John. Jane's son. He's here in hospital with me, and I wanted to know if you had any plans to meet him."

"You think I want to see the reminder of what that beast did to my daughter?"

Sherlock wished he could sock him. "That isn't John's fault! He had no more control over how he was conceived than you do."

The voice was firm. "My little girl is dead, and I know what happened to her. And now that I have those answers, I'm going to finally move on. That bastard ruined our lives, and I have no desire to see him or any trace of him ever again."

"But—" The dial tone sounded before Sherlock could say another word. He stalked back into the room and hurled his phone onto the bed. _How could he say that?_ John was his family. He was the only part of Jane Watson left. He was _her_ son, and she had died for him. Being abandoned by his grandfather could hardly be what Jane would have wanted for him.

As if to rub salt in an open wound, Mycroft refused to track him down. He could almost hear the condescending voice through the texts. _If the man doesn't even want to meet his grandson, he's clearly not capable of caring for him. Let him mourn his daughter and put the whole affair behind him. Considering what an adjustment this is going to be for John, he's better off staying with someone he knows._

"Fine," Sherlock said to his phone. He'd love John more than his arsehole of a grandfather anyway.

"What's wrong?" John asked, wide-eyed.

Seeing him, Sherlock's anger cooled, and he decided it was best not to tell John anything about it. John didn't seem to expect any family. Better to save him the disappointment of knowing he wasn't wanted.


	11. Adjusting

John had been in the world two days, and the second was being spent almost entirely in a ball on his bed, hiding under blankets and pretending to be asleep. That way he could pretend he was still in Room and everything was all right. He could pretend he was in Bed instead of a strange, other Bed he had never been in before. That the strange voices around him were just Telly; he had liked to leave it on sometimes and just listen to the people talking.

When he had first woken up, Sherlock had stepped out, and John had panicked. "What is this?" A machine was beeping next to him and had numbers that kept changing. Something was squeezing his arm tighter and tighter and it hurt—okay it let go, but now something was squeezing his feet! The ceiling and walls were white instead of grey, and he was wearing a dress. John started to pull back the covers when he realized there was something clamped onto his finger. He carefully removed it, then the blanket, and screamed.

People rushed in, and John tried to move away, but he was trapped. "What happened?" he asked frantically. He started to pull on it, but stopped and winced when it hurt. "For God's sake, get it out!"

The people stopped. "Sir, that's an IV. Please don't pull on it, it's supplying you with nutrients."

"What?"

One of them, a woman, came closer. John shrunk back. "It's helping you get better," she said softly. "All of these things are." She pointed to the cushion squeezing his arm. "That's a blood pressure cuff, it measures your blood pressure. The ones on your feet are keeping your blood circulating. And this," she put the biting thing back on his finger and John tensed at her touch, "Is a heart monitor. Please don't remove it, this is how we know you're okay."

Nothing she said made any damn sense, but John understood enough to know he was stuck with all of these things in this place. He stayed quiet under the covers as Sherlock went in and out of the room, often against doctor's and nurses' orders.

Now he was out of the room, which John was grateful for. More had happened in the past 24 hours all at once than in all the other days of his life combined. When he remembered that Door was gone and how big the world was and how he might be stuck in it forever, he would curl tighter and the machine next to him would beep a lot.

"Are you all right?" a real lady had asked him. She must have been a nurse, she looked like the women he had seen on that medical show. "John, can you look at me?"

He could, but he didn't want to. "Is this new Room?" he asked. The nurse was confused, but it was an obvious question. They had forced a needle into his hand and used it to trap him in a bed, didn't that mean they were keeping him here like Nick had kept him in Room?

 _Nick._ That's right, he was gone now. John didn't know what to think about that. He missed him and never wanted to see him again all at once. How was that possible? Why was everything all mixed up? He curled up tighter. The nurse made more notes on her chart and left quickly. There were whispers outside, then Sherlock was back.

"John." His hand was on the blanket. "It'll be all right. You're safe now."

"Can we leave?" he asked. He didn't know where they would go if they couldn't go back to Room, but there had to be somewhere better. Somewhere that didn't have beeping machines and needles and bad smells.

"Yes, we're leaving in an hour. Lestrade is taking us into the city so we can get to my home. I promise it's much nicer there."

John poked his head out from under the blanket. "I wish I had my clothes from Room. This dress is itchy."

Sherlock smiled. "I'll text Lestrade and tell him to have them ready when we leave."

* * *

Over his long nineteen years, John had become a master at finding ways to pass the time, even when resources were limited. He couldn't remember being bored in ages. Now, however, when he was waiting to get out of hospital, time slowed way, way, down. He watched Sherlock move about the world with ease, closed his eyes whenever someone else came in the room, and tried to get comfortable on new Bed.

When John was _finally_ free from the needle and all the other terrifying tools, Lestrade returned with a bag and handed it to him. He had never been happier to see his jeans, jacket, and shirt. He changed into them right away. Sherlock laughed, and Lestrade blushed and looked away.

"We're gonna have to teach you about privacy," he muttered. _What privacy? Whose?_ Why didn't people ever explain what they meant out here?

Lestrade continued, "No offense, but I'm surprised you still want those. They're all worn out. We could have gotten you some new ones."

"These are mine," was all John could think of to say to that. He felt better once they were on. Finally, _something_ was familiar. John sat on Sherlock's bed and leaned into him as the doctor came in and spoke to them all. She was insisting John wear a mask and sunglasses when he went outside until his body adjusted to the sun and germs.

He didn't much like the mask because it felt funny and made it harder to talk and eat, but the sunglasses were nice. They made everything darker, and his eyes felt better. Room would have been more like this. Not so bright all the time.

The walk from the hospital room to the car was a rough one. John had been sedated upon being brought there, so he had no memory of where to go or how to navigate. Even with Sherlock and Lestrade's help, he bumped into every wall there was—apparently his brain needed time to "readjust its spatial perceptions," whatever the hell that meant—and trembled at all the people and froze when he came to a staircase.

"I know I've seen these on Telly, but…" The people there always went up and down so fast, and he had never thought to pay much attention to how they did it.

"That's all right, we'll just take the elevator," Lestrade said cheerfully. John was happy with that at first, especially when he saw how small and empty it was, but then the doors closed. Suddenly they were falling, and John could have sworn his stomach left his body.

"What's happening?" he whispered to Sherlock, grabbing his arm and trying not to sound as scared as he was.

"The elevator's taking us down to the exit. We'll be there in a second." It was longer than that, but soon the falling stopped, the doors opened, and John had his stomach back. All three of them were relieved when they finally walked through the doors, though not until Sherlock explained that no, they didn't have knobs, they were automatic and would open and close for you. They _would_ , John, you just had to get close enough.

John managed to feel calmer in the car. Sherlock was in the back seat with him, and at least he knew what to expect. He could look at the world and still be protected from it; even the sun wasn't as bright anymore now that he had the sunglasses.

They had gone a ways, with trees passing by in a dizzying blur when Sherlock whispered in John's ear. "Just to warn you, there will be one other person in the flat with us. My landlady, Mrs. Hudson, lives just below me. But she's a gentle person, and she'll give you space if you need it."

 _Oh, great._ Another strange real person he was forced to be around. "Your flat isn't like hospital though, right?" he asked, trying to find a bright side. "It's like the houses on Telly?"

"Smaller than the houses, but yes, different from the hospital. Much more comfortable beds, for one. Better food, and a much cozier atmosphere." He snuck an arm around John's shoulder and squeezed. "You'll be safe, I promise."

"Everything all right back there?" Lestrade asked, glancing at them in the mirror. "John, you don't get carsick, do you?"

"What's that?"

"He's fine," Sherlock answered for him. "Although we would both appreciate it if, when you drive, you didn't match the rate of a turtle, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade grumbled something about not breaking the speed limit for non-emergencies, and John leaned against the window and closed his eyes, trying to tune them out. He had slept quite a bit, but he was still tired. Being in the world was exhausting.

* * *

London reminded John of a thunderstorm. A few times, Room had been pelted by a particularly bad one, and the rain combined with the loudest cracks of thunder he'd ever heard, high winds, and lightning flashes had been the biggest sensory overload he'd ever experienced. He had hidden in Bed shaking until it was finally over, part of him wishing Nick would come so he wouldn't be alone and someone would explain to him why this was happening, and part of him was praying Nick wouldn't come. Nothing put him in a bad mood like getting rained on, and bad moods meant he took some longer and harder.

The weather was calm today, but there were more sights and sounds in the city than there had been in the storm, and it was stretching forever with so much space that John had no idea what he was supposed to do with it all. In front of where the car had stopped was a crowd of people with microphones and cameras flashing, hurting his eyes even with the sunglasses. People pushed toward him and shoved their microphones in his face, asking him questions he couldn't understand. Hundreds of cars and buses were zipping around, spewing exhaust he could smell even through his mask; people were walking by and all of them saying something different, sirens were screaming somewhere, lights were flashing on signs and billboards around them, horns honked, and Lestrade was saying something to him but John couldn't focus on any of it. He shut his eyes and covered his ears.

Sherlock's voice was speaking, but even though John wanted to hear him, he didn't dare remove his hands. Instead, he concentrated on Sherlock's hands, which had landed on his shoulders and were steering him somewhere. A few steps, a door opening and closing, and a soothing silence and darkness came over him. John removed his hands and opened his eyes to see Sherlock removing his mask and sunglasses.

"There, you see," he said. "We're home now." He drew John close. "I'm sorry, I didn't know the media would be here. I'll get Mycroft and Lestrade to have a word with them."

John breathed deeply, resting his head against Sherlock's chest. The room they were in now was nice and tight, with only one light overhead just like Room had. He could still hear a few distant sounds from outside, but they were muffled, and there were no bright flashing lights.

"This is much better," he said.

Sherlock stroked his back. "I agree. It's a relief to be back in Baker Street, especially now that it's just the two of—"

"There he is!" a shrill squeal made them both jump, and Sherlock was practically knocked over by a small elderly woman, a middle-aged woman, and a tall older man, all of whom threw their arms around him.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said with mixed affection and irritation. "Didn't know you'd invited my parents here."

The middle-aged woman smacked him on the back. "Our baby boy disappears without a trace for days, then finally the police bring him home, and that's all he has to say to us?"

The elderly lady was sobbing. "Oh Sherlock, none of us thought we'd ever see you again."

John was shocked to see a tear or two appear in Sherlock's eyes too. "I'm certainly glad to be home. Apologies for worrying you." He hesitantly hugged them back, and John wished he could disappear. They were here for Sherlock, after all, not him.

He needn't have worried though, as Mrs. Hudson looked over at him and her face reminded John of a grandmother character he'd seen on Telly once. "You must be John," she said tearfully with a gentle smile.

John nodded nervously.

"You poor, sweet dear!" She broke away from Sherlock and rushed to John with her arms out. She had him in her arms before he could get away, and he started to yelp at her surprisingly strong grip. "Thank you so much for bringing Sherlock home to us. You're a brave, smart boy."

"Um, thank you." Sherlock gave him a smile of encouragement. John wasn't sure why. If there was one thing Nick had drilled into him, it was that you always said thank you when someone said or did something nice for you. The more gratitude John showed, the more treats and fewer givings there were. Did it not work the same way out here?

Mrs. Hudson let go, and John relaxed ever so slightly. "My, I'll bet you haven't had a haircut in a long time. Look at all of this." She ran her fingers through his bangs and John moved back.

"Nick always cut my hair," he said. "Every once in a while, he brought scissors and said if it got any longer, I'd look like a faggot." Once he had asked Nick what a faggot was, and Nick had barked at him not to ask stupid questions. Judging by how shocked everyone looked at what he'd said, John wondered if they knew what it was. If they didn't, did that mean they were stupid too?

"That horrible man," Mrs. Hudson said, her smile fading into anger.

"He'd better hope I never get hold of him," Sherlock's mother said. "I'll make him wish he'd never seen the light of day."

Sherlock's father chuckled. "I have no doubt."

"Anyone for a cup of tea?" Sherlock asked suddenly. The others looked confused for a second, then Mrs. Hudson said, "Of course! I've got some ready upstairs." She and Sherlock's parents hurried up there. Sherlock took the opportunity to talk quietly to John.

"I'm sorry, I should have expected my parents would be here. I'll do my best to get them out soon. If you wanted to rest alone in my bedroom a while, I'm sure no one would blame you."

That sounded like a wonderful idea. John could have cried at the thought of being alone with Bed. "Okay." He started to follow Sherlock, then realized they were back at the stairs again.

"You can do it," Sherlock said, extending an arm. "I'll help you."

The process was a long one. Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock's parents came out to see what the holdup was and started to go down to help. Sherlock insisted they stay away, more people would just make it harder. John tried to pretend he was doing a high-knees exercise in Room, but it wasn't helping. He looked behind him and fought off nausea when he saw how high he was from the ground. _Never thought I would miss the elevator so much._

"You're halfway there, just a little more," Sherlock pushed. "Just one foot up, then the other." John tried to do this, but he couldn't get the hang of moving his hands, which were clutching the banister, in time with his feet. He'd end up leaning backward with his feet up and his arms down.

Sherlock gave up. "Just crawl forward for now." Crawling was easier, and they were both relieved when he made it up to 221B. Sherlock pointed out his bedroom and John hurried into it and closed the door.

 _Finally._ He was alone. Sherlock's Bed was indeed much better than hospital's, though not the same as Bed. The room was about the size of one and a half Rooms. It had a dresser, desk, and closet like on Telly, and—wow—real books on shelves. John reached for one. He recognized the word _bees_ but nothing else. The words inside were tiny. Would he be able to read this one day, if Sherlock kept giving him lessons?

He set the book aside and reached for the blankets. Maybe if he went to sleep, the other people would be gone by the time he woke up. Upon curling back into a ball, he did exactly that.

* * *

This was the nicest sleep he'd had in a long time, and John didn't want it to end. Even once he was conscious, he kept his eyes closed and rested peacefully, just like he had so many times in Room. The blankets were warm, the pillow was comfy, the room was cool but not too much, and someone was stroking his hair…

John sat up. "Oh, it's you," he said, putting a hand over his skipping heart. "I thought another strange person was here."

Sherlock smiled sleepily. "No. My parents and Mrs. Hudson left after a few hours, and all their emotions wore me out. I was going to come in here and tell you, but you were asleep, and I couldn't bring myself to wake you." He stretched and yawned. "Nearly fell asleep myself."

His hand was warm. John held it against his cheek. "They were the only ones having emotions, mm?"

"Tch." Sherlock looked away. "I'd say so."

John lay back, so they were side by side. "Can it just be you and me for a while?" he asked. "I want to get back to our reading lessons." He squeezed Sherlock's hand. "And us."

Sherlock rewarded him with John's favorite smile of his and a peck on the cheek. "Of course. Give me a day to recover, and we'll start tomorrow." His stomach growled, and they giggled. "But first, I'm going to order in all of my favorite foods and then go out for a long walk."

* * *

The next day was much better. Though John had insisted he wanted it just the two of them, Sherlock begged him to give Mrs. Hudson a chance, and she did grow on him quickly. That first night, she made him what she called a homecoming cake. John had never had cake before, but he could tell just from looking at it that it would be amazing, and he wasn't wrong. He was amazed at how much she piled onto his plate and started to divide it up carefully until Sherlock whispered in his ear.

"You don't have to ration your food anymore, John. There's plenty. You'll always have enough to ear, every day." John didn't know if he believed that, but it was a nice change to eat until he was full. Mrs. Hudson brought them tea and other goodies as Sherlock started John back on his reading lessons. He had picked up some starter books and phonics materials on his walk, and now that they had the right tools, John was learning much faster. He was even learning to write his name.

"J-O-H-N." He spelled it over and over, practicing it in the two types of handwriting Sherlock was teaching him, print and cursive. "J-O-H-N W-A-T-S-O-N. S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K H-O-L-M-E-S." He drew the letters over and over, determined to make his brain remember them.

Sherlock held up flashcards and covered up the pictures to make it harder. "What's this word?"

"C-at. Cat."

"Excellent. Next word?"

"B-ird. Bird." They went on like that for hours until John had all of the words memorized. By the end of that first night, he could read a picture book and write his name and Sherlock's and the address of their flat. Mrs. Hudson celebrated by baking them a pie.

When it was finished, John asked for a bath. "Of course, it's right-hang on," Sherlock said, realizing something. "You've never had a shower before, have you?" John shook his head and Sherlock led him into the bathroom and started it up. John hung back, shivering once he'd stripped. The water was just like rain, only it was coming down even harder.

"Come on," Sherlock beckoned gently. He led John inside and to his surprise, the water was warm. He stood under it for a while, closing his eyes and trying out this new feeling. It wasn't as relaxing as a bath, but it wasn't as bad as he'd thought. Sherlock helped him wash his hair and took them both to bed, where they fell asleep right away.

* * *

The day after was when things suddenly got hard again. John woke up, and Sherlock wasn't there. In a panic, he rushed to the kitchen—which was his new favorite part of the house, he had never thought about a whole separate room just for cooking—and asked Mrs. Hudson where he'd gone, only to be told he had wanted to be alone and had gone to the upstairs bedroom.

 _Thanks for that_ , John thought with bitterness. Why would Sherlock go where John couldn't go with him?

The mood wasn't much better when Sherlock finally came down, because he was inexplicably grouchy. He was running around and slamming doors so much John didn't dare ask for another reading lesson. Instead, he turned on the new telly and settled himself on the couch.

This calmed him, and he spent the day in front of it, imagining he was back in Room, until Sherlock came home just as a news report was coming on. "Hey, it's Nick!" John stood up and moved closer. He was wearing orange clothes and had his hands behind his back.

 _He is pleading not guilty to charges of abduction, false imprisonment, rape and sexual assault, assault and battery, and second-degree murder. The trial date is still being set, and at present, he is being held without bail._

"Do they have to show his face?" Sherlock growled. "It's bad enough I keep getting calls and can't sleep, and everywhere I go there's a reporter—I swear, I'd give every last pence I own to never see him or hear his name again!" John winced at the upstairs door slamming.

A while later, Sherlock came back down and asked with disgust, "You're still watching?"

John clicked off the telly. "What's your problem?"

"Nothing!" Sherlock retreated back upstairs. "I don't _have_ a problem."

Mrs. Hudson tiptoed to John and whispered, "Did something happen, John? I know that man didn't treat him well, could that have something to do with it? He's had moods before, but I've never seen anything like this."

John shrugged. "Maybe he has to get used to the world too."


	12. Outside

Sherlock's irritation increased by the day. Nick wouldn't get out of his head. The media wouldn't get out of his inbox, though thankfully they did get out of his front door after Mycroft had words with them. His parents, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson wouldn't get off his back about staying safe and checking in with them and "not being reckless like that again." And John wouldn't get away from the damn television.

"I think four hours is more than enough," Sherlock said with a hard edge in his voice. John gave him a look but turned off the telly. He hugged himself with all of the blankets Mrs. Hudson had provided him and lay back on the sofa. In the three days they'd been at Baker Street, he hadn't left the flat once.

"Would you like another cuppa, sweetheart?" Mrs. Hudson asked from the kitchen.

"I would, thanks," John said. Sherlock scowled. She wasn't helping by doting on him to no end. John was used to having someone bring him everything he needed, and if they kept that up here, he'd never adjust. His bumping into things and having to wear a mask and sunglasses was bad enough.

Sherlock couldn't imagine why, after all those years trapped, John wouldn't want to run far and wide. Sherlock had indulged his family for a night and then wasted no time in going out as much as he could. Every time a breeze lifted his hair, the stars twinkled in front of his eyes, or the sun shone on his face, he reveled in it. Appreciated it. He walked and walked until his legs were too tired to go any further, and it had been the only thing so far to make him feel better. Though even that had been dampened by reporters trying to ask him about Nick, him jumping at every man in the city who looked or sounded like Nick, and seeing his fucking face on every paper and every news station.

Maybe John would enjoy a walk. He did exercise, after all. "John."

"Mm?"

"Are you up for a walk around the city?"

"Oh, um, maybe."

Sherlock chose to take that as a yes. He stood up, grabbed his coat off the hook, and fetched John's mask and sunglasses. "Excellent. Give me a moment, and I'll see if I can find a jacket that'll fit you."

John lifted his head from the sofa for the first time that day. "Oh, you mean now?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, next year. Yes of course I mean now. Let's go."

"What's the rush?" John asked indignantly. "I'm comfortable."

"Really Sherlock, can't you ever enjoy a quiet evening at home?" Mrs. Hudson agreed, returning with the tea. "The two of you were just rescued."

Interesting how if Sherlock were lounging on his laurels and expecting to be waited on hand and foot, Mrs. Hudson would complain that he hadn't been raised right and that she wasn't his housekeeper. But if _John_ did it, suddenly she was completely accommodating. He crossed the room in a stride and yanked John up by the arms.

"You can't hide in here forever. The longer you put off facing the world, the harder it will be."

John snatched his hands away. "I could be wrong, but last I checked, it's my life, not yours."

"And it's _you_ I'm worried about, not me. This isn't healthy, John. The body needs fresh air and sunlight. The mind too. And at some point, you won't be able to rely on Mrs. Hudson," he glared at her. "And you'll have to at least go outside to buy some food."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Sherlock regretted his harsh tone. John was shivering as he turned his head to the window, facing it like he would a wild beast that he had to slay. He mumbled, "I don't know what to do outside."

"There's _thousands_ of things to do in London, John. Museums, theaters, concerts, galleries, libraries, parks, shopping, cinemas, restaurants, aquariums, historic buildings, tours." When John just looked confused, he added, " _One_ of those things must appeal to you."

"I don't know!"

Sherlock was at the end of his patience. "Well then, you'll just have to try them all." He seized John by the wrist and dragged him out the door despite protests, his blankets collapsing to the floor. "Come _on._ Just one hour outside, that's all I ask."

"Let go, Jesus!" John hit Sherlock's forearm until he relented. "Fine. An hour." He put on his protective face wear and gripped the banister for dear life. "You're pretty damn demanding, you know that?"

The remark stung, but Sherlock didn't let it show. "You'll get the hang of stairs the more you practice. Just lower one foot, then the other."

After way, way, too much time and back-and-forth bickering, John went down the stairs on his hands and bum like a child because he was too afraid to let go of the damn banister long enough to take a real step. With both of them fuming at each other, they opened the front door.

Hardly two feet, and already John was clinging to Sherlock—literally. They were heading into a busy shopping district, and Sherlock had a nineteen-year-old man holding his arm as if he were a petrified three-year-old. "What do you think is going to happen?" Sherlock asked. "No one here is interested in you." Thank God for that. Everyone was on their phones or talking to somebody else.

"It's so bright…is it always this—ah!" A ray of sunshine broke through the clouds and John buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder, sunglasses and all. "My eyes."

"Yes, the sun tends to be bright. That's why you don't look directly at it." Sherlock hated himself for how he was acting, but what could he do? If he acted like it was a big deal and babied John like Mrs. Hudson did, John would never move forward. He decided to look for a store so they could practice being in public.

One came up quickly. "Ah, here we are. Sporting goods." Not the sort of place Sherlock would have gone to on his own, but John had said he liked to watch football on telly. What better way to perk him up than a real football? "Let's go."

Still clutching his friend tightly, John asked in a tense voice, "What is this?"

"A store. They sell things." A group walked by them and John practically hyperventilated as they stepped to the side. "John, _relax_. No one here is going to hurt you."

Ever so slightly, John let go, and Sherlock led him inside. Aisles and shelves stretched in every direction, filled with balls, pads, shoes, athletic wear, camping gear, and all of the other things Sherlock couldn't have possibly cared less about.

"Where's that music coming from?" John asked, searching for the source of the rock n' roll above their heads.

Sherlock pointed to the ceiling. "They have a radio up there somewhere." He found the football section.

"See?" He pointed to a shiny ball with brilliant black and white. "A real football."

John slowly reached out to touch it. "It's harder than I thought." He wasn't smiling like Sherlock hoped. "Is it one of the balls they use at the World Cup in Telly?"

"No, those are all different balls. This one is brand new, no one has used it yet." He took it off the shelf. "Would you like it?"

Instead of answering, John took the ball and turned it over and over in his hands. Sherlock shifted on his feet for a view of the other aisles. There must be something else here that would interest—oh! Well, would you look at that.

Sherlock would never have thought a sporting goods store would be the best place to get a flashlight for detective work, but the one on A4 was the exact model he'd been eying online for some time. He hurried to pick it up before someone else could.

 _Three-year battery life, adjustable flash and angle. Could work well in a house or field. Blinking light feature for distress, and a better price than I would have expected—_

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. "Hey!"

Sherlock jumped. The antitheft device at the entrance was sounding the alarm, literally. Excited, he rushed to the end of the aisle to take a look, only to have his excitement vanish. The store security guard had a terrified John by the arm and was trying to wrestle the football from him.

"Let's go, bud. You've got to pay for that!" he said. "We prosecute shoplifters here."

"Stop!" Let me go," John cried, dropping the football. "Please, please, you can have it back. I'm sorry."

Sherlock joined them, and John wasted no time in latching onto him. "It's my fault, sir. He's, um…" God, how was he supposed to explain? Everyone was watching, and one customer was filming them on her phone. "I shouldn't have left him alone. He didn't know what he was doing." The guard could fill in whatever blanks he cared to. "I can pay for the ball if you like."

The guard inspected the ball. "Well, there's been no damage done, far's I can see. I'll let you off with a warning, but don't you two try anything like that again, you hear?"

"Of course, sir." Sherlock hurried outside with John in tow. As soon as they were out of earshot, he hissed, "Don't you know you have to pay for things first? Did you never see anyone buy something from a store on telly?"

John kept his gaze on his feet. "I think so, but…there were so many counters and a line full of people. It was just one ball, and you asked me if I wanted it. I thought that meant I could have it."

"Doesn't explain why you tried to leave the store without me."

Now John looked up with a stormy expression. "Maybe because I wanted to _leave."_

"Fine." Sherlock turned around and marched them both home. "I swear, I don't know why I bother."

They were a block from Baker Street when Sherlock noticed a member of his homeless network sat waiting for him. _Finally, some good news._ "Stay put, all right? I'll only be a minute." He left John just a foot behind him while he chatted with the member about what she'd found. There was a lot to report, and it occupied his full attention.

The conversation kept him so busy that he failed to notice when John was jostled by a passerby, causing him to lose his grip on the phone he'd just taken out of his pocket as an excuse not to look at anyone. He didn't notice when John, remembering how important Mycroft had said the phone was, hurried into the street to retrieve it. He didn't notice the rush hour traffic in the street.

He did notice when horns blared, drivers shouted, John screamed, brakes screeched, and a double-decker bus came barreling toward the boy in the street, crouched over and scared, causing Sherlock to scream too.


	13. Starting Anew

The horns and screeches blended into one roar as John fell to the street in a ball with his eyes closed. He shook and choked on tears as the bus grew louder and louder, its shadow falling over him and the smell of exhaust engulfing him. _Please God let me live, make it stop, make it go away._

"John, get out of the way!" Sherlock's voice was the loudest and most panicky John had ever heard it. The bus screeched so loud John's ears rang, stopping just a hair's breadth from his body. People were yelling, though he wasn't sure what. He couldn't move. His breakfast was moving back up his throat, and he realized he'd wet himself. Jesus, that was embarrassing.

A hand grabbed his arm and yanked. "Get up, hurry!" Sherlock pulled him to his feet. John clutched the phone and let Sherlock lead him out of the road and into a quiet alley. He looked back through blurry eyes. The cars and bus were moving again as if nothing had happened. As if they hadn't almost killed him.

Sherlock pinned him to a wall. His sunglasses fell off. "What the hell were you thinking? Do you have any idea how close you came to getting killed?" John had never seen or heard him so angry. His face reminded John of Nick, and the memory made his eyes sting.

"You never, _ever_ run out into the street like that when cars are moving, do you understand?" Sherlock shook him. "That phone is not worth your life, you idiot!"

"Fuck you!" John shoved him so hard he fell back. "It's your fault! Your brother told me not to lose the phone, and you never said the roads would be like that. You always tell me to do things and then leave out important details, and I get so confused." John retreated into a corner, hiding his face in his hands.

Sherlock followed him. "Come _on_ John, you're telling me you had no idea that a machine that size moving at that speed could hurt you? I know you're a former prisoner, but you're not stupid!"

"Well, I'm sorry I'm not a genius like you!" John shouted. Talking was getting harder. "But if you were really that smart, you never would have made me come here. _I hate it!"_ He gasped for breath and struggled to dry his eyes, shaking his head. "It's too much. Too damn much."

Sherlock put his arms around him and gently rubbed his back. "Suppose I shouldn't have lost my temper like that," he said into his hair. "I was just scared. I couldn't handle it if I lost you."

John held onto his shirt. "Will you please just take me back?"

"Yes, that's enough for one day. We'll go back to Baker Street and—"

" _Room_ , Sherlock! I want to go back to Room."

Sherlock backed away and held John's face in his hands. "What?"

John pushed his hands away. "I want. To go back. To Room. Now." Sherlock seemed too shocked to answer, so he continued, "You don't have to be there with me, but I need to go back. I'm safe there, and I understand how everything works." He sniffed. "Everything makes sense there."

The reaction John received was the last one he was expecting. He had thought Sherlock would yell or say something sarcastic or maybe even hit him like Nick might have done. Instead, Sherlock's eyes began to water as well.

"Do you really mean to say that living with me is worse than living there with Nick?"

"What? No." John looked skyward to avoid that face. "It's not you that's the problem, Sherlock. It's the world. I don't want to live in the world anymore, it's too much and too hard. I didn't know there were going to be so many people. Sherlock, don't you start." He pulled him back into a hug, and they spent a few minutes comforting each other, rocking each other slowly. When they had run out of tears, they sat down in a corner where the cars were only distant background noise.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "John. I know it's a difficult adjustment, and I'm sorry that I failed in making it easier for you. But going back to your life in Room is not possible. Nick has been arrested so there would be no one to bring you food. There's no door on it anymore so you wouldn't be safe from rain or wild animals or hot and cold." He took John's hand and kissed it. "The life you knew in that place is gone. Forever."

Deep down, John had known that was the case as soon as he saw that Door had been blown off. Still, to hear Sherlock say it gave it even more finality and made his whole body ache. He sobbed hard for a minute and asked, "But what if I can't make it out here? What if it's too late for me to live in the world?"

Sherlock was firm. "I'm not giving up on you, John Watson. Part of why it's been hard is because I've been an idiot and a terrible friend to you." Before John could protest, he said, "No, it's true. It was selfish of me to throw you into everything at once. I should have taken better care." He swallowed. "But if you'll be kind enough to give me another chance, I swear I'll be better this time. I'll find a way to help you adapt that makes you happy."

How could he say no to that? "Of course. Just…maybe stay with me the whole time when we go out, okay? At least until I can get the hang of it."

Sherlock smiled. "I need no convincing to stay with you, John."

* * *

After they returned to Baker Street, Sherlock spent a lot of time on his laptop. John was content to rest and enjoy the quiet, but his love couldn't sit still. When asked, he said he was doing research. John peeked at the screen. _Prisoner reintegration to society. Coping with abduction trauma._ He didn't understand what all of the words meant, but he had a feeling they had something to do with him. Sherlock was reading at a rate John envied and had a calendar on his computer screen that he was typing into.

A few hours later as John was getting ready for bed, Sherlock approached him timidly. "I have a plan."

"For what?"

"You." He unlocked his phone and showed John a calendar. "I've developed a schedule for us to follow that allows for your gradual introduction into society. Basically, we'll start out small, with short trips out to places nearby and doing simple things, and we'll work our way up as you get used to it." He scrolled through the dates. They spanned several months. "That sound okay?"

Given what happened today, starting small sounded amazing. "Okay," John agreed. "What are we doing tomorrow?"

Sherlock smiled. "We're going to eat ice cream. That's all."

 _Ice cream._ Just the word brought back memories of those rare occasions when Nick would be in a good mood and bring ice cream to Room. He took most of it for himself, but he would let John have a few scoops, and it was always delightfully cold on his tongue and left him wanting more. At least this was something he knew would be good.

"Thank you, Sherlock," he said, relieved to finally mean it. "I'd love some ice cream."


	14. Simple Pleasures

Izzy's Ice Cream was only a block from Baker Street and on the same side of the building, so no street crossing was needed, much to John's relief. Sherlock said they were going in the morning because it wasn't likely to be as crowded then. He was right; the shop was mostly empty as they entered to the ringing of a bell. John glanced around to see where it was coming from, then realized it was attached to the door. That was funny. He hadn't known doors could make ringing sounds instead of beeping ones.

The shop was small and simple, with only a few round tables and chairs around the glass-encased counters where the ice cream was kept. The walls were painted a cheerful yellow, with a checked pattern on the floor. There was so much color in the world; it was like everybody wanted to see how much color and sound they could cram in at once.

"Welcome, what can I get for you?" John turned around. A woman with clear gloves was smiling at him. At times, he was still amazed at how many people there were in the world. There was someone every time he turned around.

Sherlock took his arm. "We're still deciding," he said to the lady. She said that was no problem and to take their time, and Sherlock spoke softly to John. "They've got forty different flavors of ice cream, and twenty toppings. Do you need me to read them to you?"

John smiled. Sherlock was much more like his old self today. He hadn't even made a fuss about the stairs that morning. John held his hand and inspected the labels. Most of them were easy. _Vanilla. Chocolate. Cotton Candy. Rocky Road. Mint Chocolate Chip. Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough. Cookies n' Cream. Fudge Brownie. Rainbow Sherbet. Strawberry. Peanut Butter Cup. Butter Pecan. Black Cherry. Coffee. Pistachio._ "I can read them, but how do I know which one to get? Nick only brought me one kind of ice cream, and I'm not sure which one it was."

"You can ask for a sample," Sherlock said. "They let you have a small taste for free."

John stood there, waiting for Sherlock to signal the lady. It took him a minute to realize Sherlock intended for him to do it. Well, he supposed he couldn't avoid talking to strangers forever. He slowly approached the lady, who had moved to the cash register. "Um."

"Are you ready?"

 _Ready for what?_ "C-could I have a sample, please?"

"Of course! What would you like to try?"

Well, that was easier than expected. Only now he'd have to decide on a flavor. Or could he try several of them? "The chocolate chip cookie dough and the peanut butter cup." He liked chocolate chip cookies and peanut butter, so surely those were safe choices.

"Coming right up," she said, and John relaxed at her friendly tone. Sherlock flashed him a proud smile. She handed him two tiny spoons with different colored ice cream on the ends. He took them, removed his mask, and carefully tasted them both.

"Mm." He had never had ice cream like this before. He could taste chocolate chip cookie _inside_ the ice cream, and the other had a taste like chocolate and peanut butter mixed together. "They both taste good." He thought a second. "But I think I like the chocolate chip cookie dough better."

"Excellent choice," she said. "Would you like it in a cup or a cone?" she pointed to a glass box that had small and large cups and a few things that looked like funny triangles.

Sherlock nudged him. "I recommend the cone. You can eat it once you've eaten the ice cream."

John's mouth dropped. "You can _eat_ the thing that the ice cream is in?"

"Yes." The lady was starting to look at John funny, so Sherlock quickly said, "We'll take two waffle cones, please. Chocolate chip cookie dough for him and fudge brownie for me."

As if getting ice cream and getting to eat its container wasn't exciting enough, apparently you could also put things _on top_ of the ice cream. John had never tried the candies, so he asked for blueberries. Sherlock got sprinkles. Once he had paid and they were holding their cones, they sat down at one of the tables.

John was in awe. He had never thought ice cream could look so beautiful. She had scooped it stylishly, and Sherlock's ice cream was covered in a little rainbow. John had to be reminded to eat his before it melted.

"I've never had so much of it," he said. "And never—what's it called? A cone? I've never tasted that." He took a cautious lick, and holy hell it was so good that he wasted no time in taking a few dozen more licks, to Sherlock's amusement.

"Here," he took a few sprinkles off of his own ice cream and put them onto John's. "These are quite good." He was right. John loved those as much as he loved the chocolate chip cookie dough. Whoever thought of combining chocolate chip cookies with ice cream must have been a genius. And to put blueberries on top! In a container you could eat! John couldn't stop grinning. And it was all for _him_. He didn't have to share with Nick at all.

When he had eaten half of the ice cream, John took his first bite of the waffle cone. It still seemed impossible to him that you could eat a container, but when he took that first bite, he was amazed. "It's almost as good as the ice cream!" He bit into it voraciously. "Mm, so good."

"Slow down, it's not going anywhere," Sherlock teased. "Don't want to give yourself a stomachache." John couldn't help it. He finished the whole thing before Sherlock even got to his cone.

* * *

The bell rang again as they left the door, their bellies full and their hearts happy. "That was really good, Sherlock. Thank you." The look on Sherlock's face when he said that put a smile on John's own.

"I'm glad. We can head back now."

"Already?" Sherlock stopped. "Is there another place we could go?" John was equally shocked by his own question, but he meant it. That had been so nice he wanted more. This was better than Telly.

Sherlock hugged him right then and there. "Of course there is. There's a park not too far from here, it was next on my list."

They started off, intertwining their fingers. John tried to remember if he had seen a park on Telly. "The park is a bunch of grass where kids play, right?"

"Basically," Sherlock said. "But it's more than just grass. Depending on which one you go to, there can be lakes and cafés and other such things. People play sports, sunbathe, walk their dogs."

 _Dogs._ John shuddered at the thought of the big one from before. No, he wasn't going to let that stop him. Sherlock was here now. He would know what to do.

* * *

Like the ice cream, the park was better than John imagined. He and Sherlock sat on a bench and watched people come and go. The sky was finally starting to be blue again instead of white or grey, and kids were playing football nearby. Someone else was playing a stringed instrument. A fountain was spraying happily. Something about all of the trees was peaceful.

"This is the prettiest part of the world so far," he said.

"Far from it," Sherlock said. "Keep in mind, you're only seeing one part of the world. We're in London. That's one city out of over four thousand." John's expression made him chuckle. "We need to get you a world map."

John couldn't comprehend that much space. That sounded like more than any person could see in a lifetime. London alone was huge. Before he could ask Sherlock how big it was, he heard a flapping sound next to them.

"Sherlock!" he tugged at his coat. "Look!" He pointed to the bird, a real bird, standing next to their bench.

"Careful, those pigeons can be nuisances," Sherlock said with a little scorn. "You feed them once, and they never let you forget it."

John barely heard him. "A real bird," he whispered. He had seen them so many times on Telly. Once a bird had even landed on Skylight, but Nick had insisted he had imagined it. He reached out his hand to touch those soft grey feathers. The bird flew off before he could.

"No, come back!" Too late. "I wanted to pet it," he grumbled.

Sherlock snorted. "Come back with some food next time. They'll eat it right out of your hand." Something caught his eye. "Oh, here comes another animal."

A jingling sound was getting louder, and suddenly a little black dog was in front of them, wagging its tail like Buster had done. Sherlock wasted no time in reaching a hand out, and unlike the bird, the dog jumped up to meet it.

"Good girl," he fawned, scratching her ears and rubbing her head. He nodded to John. "This one will let you pet her."

John was hesitant at first, but she didn't look big enough or strong enough to pin him to the ground, so he slowly joined Sherlock's hand with his own. The dog gave it a quick lick and stood there patiently, with her paws on the bench between them. Her fur was like a blanket, but warmer, and her tongue was wet and rough. She had the most adoring eyes.

"Hey! Come here, girl." Too soon, the dog ran back to her owner. John looked at his hand, which was still wet from her tongue.

"I can't believe it. I just pet a dog. And I saw a bird." God, here he went again with the waterworks. "Two things that would have been unimaginable just a week ago."

Sherlock wrapped him in a tight embrace. "That's just the first of many. We're going to catch you up on everything."


	15. The World

What Sherlock was soon to discover over the next few weeks was that with John, everything was different. All that had been boring and dull and ordinary was now exciting and new. Because to John, it _was_ new.

"We can take books from here for free? Just walk out with as many as we want?" John asked in amazement at the library. "You mean people just perform all of _The Lion King_ at once? Real people, dressed up as lions?" he asked as they passed the Lyceum Theatre. There was nothing that didn't dazzle him. They walked into a Waterstones, and John's mouth stayed open the whole time. "How are there so many books? Sherlock, how can there be enough people in the world to have written all of these? There must be a million of them!"

Sherlock loved to watch him and his expression when all of it was explained. Despite not being personally responsible for theaters, bookstores, libraries, and the like, Sherlock couldn't help feeling like he was a magician, conjuring up wonders for John. His mind palace was getting crowded with all of the pictures he was mentally saving in his head of John's many firsts.

"Jesus, what's that?" John asked excitedly. Sherlock returned from his mind palace to see his love pointing at the London Eye. "What's that giant wheel for?"

"It's called the London Eye. A tourist attraction, just a Ferris wheel that gives you a view of the city." He had never been on, having an extreme distaste for tourist traps and slow rides in equal measure. That didn't stop him from asking, "Do you want to go on?"

God, John's face as he watched the Eye turn was priceless. "Yeah," he said with reverence. "Yeah, I do."

Sherlock wasted no time in getting them both tickets. He came close to complaining upon seeing how overpriced they were but kept his mouth shut just in time. John shouldn't worry about money yet.

The experience was as slow as Sherlock imagined it would be, but when they were finally in the air, standing where the glass curved downward, he felt at peace. The city was laid out in front of them like a picture, boats and barges going along the Thames and clouds moving over Big Ben and the Shard. Since they were lucky enough to get a car to themselves, they shared a kiss.

"It's fantastic," John said, taking off his sunglasses to get a better look. The higher they rose, the less he could tear himself away from the view. "I see why you missed this place so much. I think I would have too."

 _Hell of a change from those four grey walls._ He gave John's shoulder a squeeze. "It's funny. I never knew just how much I love it until I was taken away from it and then got to share it with you." He wished they weren't in public so he could show John the affection building up inside him. It was making him ache. "I hope I always get to share it with you."

John moved into his arms. "Is there a lot more to see? Going by what I'm seeing outside, it looks like London goes on forever."

How many more ordinary things could John transform into extraordinary? Sherlock wanted nothing more than to find out. "If you'll stay with me, I promise to come up with something new every day. And we can re-visit old favorites whenever you want."

John pushed his mask down and tugged on Sherlock's coat. "C'mere." Sherlock bent down, and John captured him in their most passionate exchange yet. They had to be reminded to leave the car.

* * *

That week was full of outings. The first was the zoo, though that didn't go as well as planned. Most of the animals were in open enclosures with a generous amount of space, but one of the first exhibits was parrots, and they were in cages. Sherlock took one look and had to leave the room. John ran after him to find him heaving over a rubbish bin.

"'m sorry," he gasped. "I just…I can't…I can't see anything locked up. Not anymore." He _hated_ himself for ruining one of the trips John had been looking forward to the most. Why couldn't he get over it? It wasn't like _he_ was in the cages, and the birds were animals who were well cared for. His body didn't care. As soon as he saw the bars and the lock, his digestive track went into reverse, and he couldn't stop shaking. The door slammed, and Nick forced himself inside him over and over again in his head.

Bless him, John was more understanding than he deserved. "It's okay," he said softly, holding Sherlock's head. "I can come back later when I'm ready to go out by myself. You don't have to go with me everywhere."

"I should—this shouldn't be a big deal."

"It's okay, Sherlock. Really. You've already done more than enough. Let's just get you home until you feel better, okay?"

They did, and Sherlock was determined that the next time out together would be special to make up for his inexcusable nonsense. After the gardens and a museum, the next step up was a film at the cinema.

Sherlock worried Leicester Square might be too noisy and crowded for John, but the latter assured him he could handle it now so long as Sherlock stayed close. Still, Sherlock was careful to bring him to one of the less popular films at one of the less popular times. The cinema was one of the places John had seemed most excited for, and it needed to be perfect.

"It's watching a movie, but on a much bigger type of telly," Sherlock had told him. "The picture is bigger, the sound is louder, and you can eat popcorn, soda, and candy while you watch."

"How much bigger are we talking about?" John asked. He gestured to Sherlock's telly. "About that size?"

Sherlock laughed. "Just wait."

Leicester Square wasn't as busy as they feared, but they still held tight to each other as they made their way to one of the many cinemas. The film they were seeing was a simple LGBTQ rom-com, playing in the early evening. As they approached the box office, John whispered, "Why is she speaking to people through a microphone? All that glass seems like it would make their job harder."

Sherlock started to answer, only to find he didn't know. Stupid. He should know that, why didn't he know it? He would have to research it later. "Probably to keep people from stealing the tickets," he guessed. "I'm not sure." He quickly paid for theirs and rushed John inside, embarrassed. Did John think him an idiot now? Was the "magic" gone? Would this be more confusing for John?

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?" He resumed his neutral face. Wouldn't do to let him see Sherlock worry.

"How do you get money in the world? I know people earn it with jobs, but I don't know how to get one of those."

Ah. At least this was something he could answer. "You apply for jobs. Usually, applications are on company websites, but sometimes they're on paper, and they'll hand them to you if you ask for them. You typically have to go to school first, though. I do some detective work for people and earn money from that." Also his parents were still paying for some of his expenses, but John didn't need to know that.

He was crushed. "Oh. I just wish I could buy you something. I'm not sure how much money is a lot, but it seems like you've been spending a lot on me."

Sherlock smiled and hugged him hard. "Don't worry about that. I've got enough. And we'll get you in school soon, so you can get a job and earn some money too." He pat John's back. "One thing at a time, all right? Don't rush yourself."

Those eyes could make him melt. "Thank you so much, Sherlock. I never would have made it in the world without you."

How did one person affect him so much? Make his heart leap, his knees wobble, his cheeks blush—wait, he was blushing? "Of course," he said quickly. "Come on, let's get some concessions." He couldn't let anyone see him experiencing emotion like this.

* * *

"Everything in the world is so damn _huge_ ," John said, shaking his head happily as they left the cinema. "The buses, the shops, the cities, even their telly screens!"

"And our popcorn," Sherlock teased. They had shared a large, alternating bites of the salty, buttery corn with cool sips of their drinks and sweet chocolate bars. The film hadn't been bad either. A nice, campy time with opportunities for them to lean in close to each other, and the lack of many people or interactions made the time a relaxing one for them both.

They had gone a few steps down the colorfully lit square under the stars when John stopped, his happiness disappearing. "All of this was here all this time," he said. "It was all here, and I was missing it." He trembled. "If it weren't for Nick, I could have had this all along."

Seeing John upset tugged at Sherlock's heart. "There's no doubt he's a monster," he said. "But, it's also worth noting that if it weren't for Nick, you wouldn't be here at all." He shut his eyes, willing away the memory of that disgusting face. "As sorry as I am for what happened to Jane and to you, I am grateful, beyond measure, that you're here." He stroked John's cheek. "If there was anything good to come out of that atrocity, it was you, John. And I'm going to make sure you don't miss another moment."

"Please," John said, and they hugged again. Sherlock didn't think he had ever embraced anyone so much in a lifetime, much less in one day. And the crazy part? He still didn't feel like he'd had enough. When they pulled away, he wanted more.

"Let me take you one more place tonight," he said. "It's not far from Baker Street, and I promise we'll go straight home once it's over."

To his relief, John smiled. "Okay." Just a week ago, he never would have agreed. He was improving faster than Sherlock would have thought possible.

* * *

Angelo's was at its most beautiful after dark when the lights at the entrance could be clearly seen and candles lent the interior an extra romantic ambience. The man himself was thrilled to see them and said so. He led them to a booth, handed them menus, and placed a bottle of wine on their table, winking as he left.

"This place sure is different than Speedy's," John observed. "They must keep their food hidden."

Sherlock giggled. "It isn't hidden, it's just in the kitchen. At a restaurant like this, the food is cooked fresh when you order it. At a café like Speedy's, they have snack food all ready to go and simply hand it to you. Sort of an unwritten contract that says if you're getting a small amount of food for a small amount of money, it's going to be the kind that's sat out for a bit. Whereas if you get a large amount of food for more money, like here, the food is cooked and served right out of the oven."

"Oh, I see," John said. "So then they bring it to us, like on Telly?"

"Mm." Sherlock opened his menu. "I recommend the chicken. Angelo always gets it exactly the right consistency." He studied John as he read his own menu, trying to gauge whether he needed help reading it. Much of their lessons had covered food, but not fancy food.

"This word looks familiar." John pointed to s _paghetti_. "I know I've seen that on the boxes of food that Nick brought me."

"Spaghetti," Sherlock said. "That's pasta, noodles."

"I've had that!" John replied, grinning. "Nick used to bring me a lot of that. The one thing he taught me how to do was boil water and stir."

Sherlock pointed to the description above the items. "You can ask them to put chicken in the spaghetti too if you want."

John closed his menu. "That sounds good." Right on cue, Angelo returned. Before Sherlock could speak, John told him, "I'd like spaghetti with chicken, please."

Sherlock could have screamed with happiness. Two weeks in the world and John was already ordering his own food. Just a week ago, he had wanted to go back to Room and avoid everyone, and now he was talking to servers by himself. Maybe that meant Sherlock was doing something right.

"Yes sir, and to drink?"

"Oh, um, water, I guess." He looked at Sherlock sheepishly. Well, it was a work in progress.

After taking Sherlock's order, Angelo left them alone. They chatted about everything under the sun until he returned with two steaming plates of delicious dinners, cooked and arranged to perfection. "Enjoy!" he said and left them once again.

"Wow." John stared at his mountainous pile of spaghetti and chicken, topped with sauce, grated parmesan cheese, and bits of garnish.

"Let me guess: it's big?" Sherlock joked.

"No, I just never thought spaghetti could look this good," John said. "And what's all this red stuff? I've never had that before."

 _Idiot. I should have told Angelo to leave that off._ "It's sauce, most people pair it with spaghetti."

"Hmm. Guess I may as well try it." John started to reach his hand in, and Sherlock quickly gave him a crash course in how to eat spaghetti with a fork. God, he was really failing John tonight. He should have known a dish like that would be hard for him to eat. He should have told him to get soup or something else that would be easy to handle.

Sherlock needn't have worried; John took one bite of the sauce-covered spaghetti and moaned with delight. "It's great. Better than any I made in Room."

He dug in with gusto and Sherlock left his own dish mostly untouched, though it was delicious as always. Watching John do anything was endlessly fascinating, and Sherlock didn't think he would ever tire of it.

* * *

 _Get those off and open up. Now._

Sherlock punched, kicked, bit, spat, fought, but no matter how hard he struggled, Nick thrust over and over, sending his head into the wall and splitting Sherlock down the middle. Nick then flung the two halves of his body in different parts of the shed and stomped into them with his steel-toed boots, his face contorting angrier and angrier until there was a _crack_ and the shed was flooded with Sherlock's blood, and he was drowning, he needed air please _please_ he couldn't breathe—

"No!" He screamed, and the thump to the floor from his bed jerked him awake. Sherlock was panting, and sweat was pooling at the back of his neck. With some effort, he untwisted himself from the sheets and used his blanket to try and stop the tears gathering in his eyes.

Why wouldn't _he_ just go the fuck away? Why were _his_ face and voice always in the back of Sherlock's mind?

He hurried down the stairs and rummaged through his desk drawers. It had to be here somewhere, he always kept just a little just in case. There! He grabbed it. Pulled it back. Found the vein and…

"Sherlock?" He yelped and jumped, dropping the syringe. John padded closer, and if Sherlock hadn't been so distressed, he might have commented on how adorably sleepy he looked in his pajamas and bedhead. "What's going on? Are you okay?"

"Fine. Go back to sleep." He picked up the syringe.

"What's that?"

"It's nothing. Go back to sleep."

"Doesn't look like nothing."

" _John._ For God's sake, I'll explain in the morning. Now go back to bed and leave me alone!" Damn, his voice broke on that last word.

He expected John to say something snarky and storm into his room and slam the door. Instead, he slowly moved to Sherlock's side and took the syringe from him. "Something tells me you wouldn't be hiding this in a desk and not telling me about it if it was good for you." He stuck it in his pocket. "Tell me what's wrong."

Sherlock sighed. John was a clever man, no doubt about that. "It's just something to make me feel better. I don't feel good."

"You had a nightmare about Nick, didn't you?" John asked gently. Sherlock was speechless. "I used to have them too. Back when I was little, and he first started taking some, I used to have them all the time." He stroked Sherlock's arm. "That's been one of my favorite parts of being here with you. I don't have to do that anymore. And neither do you."

Sherlock drew John close and held him hard. He couldn't imagine being a child and having to deal with that, especially all alone. John was a thousand times stronger than he could ever be. "How did you make it stop?"

"Well, for a while, I didn't. But you can get used to anything after enough time. One thing I did was watch a whole lot of Telly and exercise a lot. That would tire me out too much to dream. I would also surround myself with stuffed animals—Nick got rid of them later, but I used to have a lot of them—and imagine they were like the superheroes I watched in Telly. They would protect me."

Sherlock pictured a small John all alone with that monster and felt like sobbing all over again. "Will you sleep with me tonight?" Sherlock hadn't known that was what he wanted until he asked it, but he was relieved to hear John's answer.

"Yes. And every night, if you want me to."

That was the last time they slept in separate beds. From then on, John curled protectively around Sherlock, murmuring soothing words to him, and Sherlock was lulled into a soothing sleep. The next morning he confessed what the syringe meant. On John's and Mrs. Hudson's insistence, he swallowed his pride and texted Mycroft that he needed a therapist and that John might need one too.

To his credit, Mycroft didn't say a word in derision. Sherlock had a therapist in hours. Even better, he had John by his side every night.


	16. Living

Though he would never repeat the experience again in a million years, Sherlock couldn't help but be grateful that his time in captivity had introduced him to the man who was now undoubtedly the love of his life. He had known that was the case even before, but after John saved him the second time, something changed. When Sherlock thought of his plans, he couldn't picture them without John. Partnership, cohabitation, even marriage all seemed plausible now. With John, every day was an adventure.

Therapy was going surprisingly well, and John had started going with him. Sherlock hadn't had a nightmare in weeks and was sleeping better in his own bedroom with John beside him. The two of them might always have some trauma, but they would face it together.

For the first time since heading off to Uni, Sherlock was excited about the future. There were so many places he wanted to take John, so many restaurants and musicians he wanted to show him. He got a thrill every time he made a reservation or penciled in a day on their calendar.

Even better, John was reading. Every time they went out, he practiced on signs and menus. By Sherlock's estimates, he was already at third-grade level and learning fast. He and Mycroft were looking into tutors and classes and had taken John to programs at the library to help him learn computers and technology. Hopefully someday, he could enroll at Uni. For now, he was a wonderful help with the consulting detective business, offering moral support and physical strength as well as the occasional clue Sherlock missed.

One day John said out of the blue, "I know what I want to do with my life."

Sherlock looked up from his microscope. "Oh?"

John nodded, sounding surer of himself as he went on. "I realized in Room that I like making people feel better. You know, like the doctors in hospital did for us? When I get farther along in my education, I think I'd like to be a doctor."

 _You don't exactly start small, do you?_ But Sherlock wouldn't dare discourage him.

John wasn't finished. "Specifically, I think I'd like to be a doctor for soldiers. Help fix them up when they get injured on the battlefield. They're doing something important, and I like that. What do you think?"

Sherlock had mixed feelings about the military part since it meant deployment, but it was John's life. He rose from his chair and took John in his arms. "I'd be honored to help you."

John hugged him tightly. "I want to go back to Room."

"Are you fucking kidding—"

"Just for a visit," John assured him. "I promise. I don't want to stay there anymore, I like it out here with you. I just…" He took a moment to think and finally said, "I just feel like I need to see it one last time."

 _You're testing me, John Watson._ The last thing Sherlock ever wanted to do was go back to that place where he'd been imprisoned. Beaten. Raped. He already saw it enough in his nightmares.

"Anything for you, John," he said, stroking his hair. "Anything for you."

* * *

The trip was far too long, and it wasn't made better by arriving. Most of the police tape was gone, but there were still a few remnants. Sherlock had texted Lestrade that morning to confirm that Nick was still in custody under maximum security without bail. Probably sensing his nervousness, Lestrade offered to send a cop with them. Sherlock refused to be that needy, but now that he was here, he almost wished he'd accepted. He couldn't stop checking behind him as they walked around the house toward the backyard.

"I still can't believe they blew off Door," John said. It was still lying by the side of the shed. "Suppose even _they_ couldn't get it open."

They stepped in front of the shed and Sherlock doubled over. John rubbed his back and asked over and over if he was okay, did they need to leave, was he sick. "I'm fine," Sherlock said, standing up shakily and wiping his mouth. "Let's just get this over with."

He stayed by the door, but John walked inside. He stood in the center of the now rug-less floor, taking in what was left of Room. Most of the items inside had been taken for evidence, but the bed, wardrobe, sink, chair, toilet, and skylight remained.

After a long time, John asked, "Is this really Room?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, keeping his eyes on the sky.

"Has it gotten smaller?"

Sherlock smiled and turned to look at John. "No. Your world has gotten bigger."

John paced the shed, touching the bed where he had slept every night and been raped almost as often, the wardrobe where he had dressed every day, the sink where he had washed his hands and dishes, the chair where he ate all his meals, the toilet and bathtub. He looked up at the skylight, his only source of light for nineteen years. With a more peaceful expression than Sherlock was expecting, John joined him at the entrance. He turned back for one last look at his childhood home.

"Goodbye, Room," he said and left to rejoin the world.


End file.
